Demon in my veiw
by ramblingonandon
Summary: [THIRD in the UNTOLD CHAPTER verse] From friends to brothers isn't an easy road, but when loyalty runs thicker than blood there is no other destination.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: this is third in the verse of The Untold Chapter, if you haven't read the other two you might not understand what's going on in this story. This one has more AU characteristics than the other two, the plot hinges more onto the supernatural side of it but for me the story will always be about the boys and their brotherhood. The name of this story is inspired from the poem 'Alone' by Edgar Alan Poe, it just seems to fit the characters of the four protagonists.**

 **As always I apologize for any mistakes there may be in this story.**

 **And I don't own anything recognizable nor am I making money from it.**

* * *

" _ **I don't believe an accident of birth makes people sisters or brothers. It makes them siblings, gives them mutuality of parentage. Sisterhood and brotherhood is a condition people have to work at. " – Maya Angelou**_

* * *

The streets of Paris lay silent and deserted as he moved under the cover of the night. This was not what he had expected when he had signed that contract or whatever it was that Marcus had wily offered him a year ago. In fact he hadn't known what to expect, but night time meetings at the borders of the city every two months were becoming a nuisance. He was the Captain of the Musketeers, not a character in some cheap theatre act!

He had real duties, like the security of the Royal Guests at the palace. His Majesty's distant cousin the Comte d'Fleurhelm had been the target of an ambush on his journey and some had even tried to rob the guest wing of the palace. The king wasn't happy; he had been hoping that the Comte's loyalty and allegiance to the crown would be easily refreshed by this visit.

Still Treville couldn't refuse his place in the Brotherhood of Watchmen, safety of many dear lives depended on it. He only wished that he could once again handle Marcus's increasingly pointed questions about Felipa and Rene – not Rene, Aramis – he reminded himself.

As something small and furry scuttled along the stone edge of the river, he glanced back the way he had come before he stepped onto the bridge. He noticed a figure that loomed off to his side near the low railing and his hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword; for a moment Captain Treville was sure that he was going to meet a rather grizzly end this night. There was a reason the streets were exceptionally quite at night and the taverns not that packed. A killer had descended into the maze of the city and The Shredder had left many a messy remains for the citizens to find.

This person however was not proportioned like the feared murderer was famed to be nor was he armed. Treville looked up and down the empty bridge then frowned at the long limbed figure leaning onto the railing.

"Hey," he neared the slim figure, "What're you doing out here alone."

A long brown face regarded him with a deep scowl and dark eyes flashed angrily from under the fringes of straight dark hair.

"What's it to you?" the boy demanded.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," the Captain said, "There could be dangerous characters about."

The boy crossed his arms in front of chest, arched an eloquent brow and pointedly leaned away from the man. Treville sighed heavily and wiped a hand over his face.

He was already running late, it would push Marcus into that politely enraged mood that irritated the Captain to no end and he could just picture the Cardinal gloating in the background; but he could not leave this child alone in the night, his conscience wouldn't allow it.

"I'm not one of those characters," he shook his head wearily.

"Of course I should believe you since you're obviously telling the truth," the teenager rolled his eyes.

Treville was suddenly reminded of Aramis, that one still has to take an order without a comeback although his sarcasm was of the cheerful sort; but it had drawn out Athos' rather scathingly dry wit and Porthos sharp humor. Treville looked down at the boy who would fit right in with those three and pitied the fool who would try to command such a group.

"Go home kid," he said, "The city isn't safe at night."

"Your concern is touching,"

"Look, I can tell you're not from around here, either you're visiting or you're new to the city. Now I'm the Captain of the King's Musketeers and I have somewhere to be. So you tell me if I need to escort you to an inn or a house or should I just dump you back at my garrison for the night?"

The boy sighed and looked up and down the empty bridge. His arms crossed in front of his chest became more of a hug around his ribs and he finally gave a short nod.

"I'm visiting with my father, we came from Gascony." He said, "We're staying at an inn and I kinda lost my way."

"Your father would be looking for you,"

"He's out for a meeting," the boy shrugged.

"You know the name of the inn you're staying at?"

"I know the name has the word Inn,"

Treville could tell the boy was testing him; it was clear in the all too innocently bland face. He had a feeling that he would have to go all the way back to the garrison and hand this boy over to somebody responsible.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Charles," the boy straightened a bit, "I'm Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac from Gascony."

The name brought Treville's shifting plans to an abrupt halt. He looked the boy up and down as a deep frown appeared on his face. On a closer look the boy did look like him quite a bit.

"d'Artagnan?" Treville said, "You know Marcus d'Artagnan?"

The boy smirked at the mention and nodded proudly.

"He's my grandfather,"

"Good, come along then," Treville grabbed the slim hand before there could be a protest.

"I'm not a child! I have feet I can walk on!" Charles tried to wriggle out of his grip.

The Captain managed to drag him all the way across the bridge, beyond the waterfront buildings and into the street where the current meeting house was. They never had a meeting in the same house twice; smart but damn annoying Treville decided.

He checked the address from the letter he carried and moved to knock on the door whilst still holding onto the boy who squirmed in his hold like a spooked tadpole.

"How do I know you're not one of his enemies? My grandfather is an important man; there are people out there who would want to harm him or his family!"

"So you decided to take a stroll at night in the city you barely know?"

"I was following my father and got lost alright?!" Charles growled.

The boy pulled in a last desperate tug and when that didn't work he bit into the hand holding on to him. Treville let him go with a hissed curse and shook out his hand where he could feel the teeth marks dented in his skin. The boy stumbled back and fell onto his rear end just as the door to the house opened.

Pale yellow light spilled across the doorway as Marcus came forward to greet Treville.

"Ah Captain, how kind of you to join us this night," he inclined his head with _that_ smile.

Before Treville could speak however, a loud gasp from behind him followed a scuffling sound as the boy launched himself forward towards the older of the two men.

"Grandfather!" he threw his hands around the long neck and hugged the old man.

"Charles?" Marcus looked from the Captain to the boy, "how did you get here?"

"I would like an answer to that too," another man pushed through the door and came to stand in front of the Captain, frowning deeply.

He was on the shorter side, with a stockier built but the straight graying hair seemed familiar.

"Did he put you up to this?" he nodded towards Marcus, "Did he pay you to get him here?"

"Alexander, really now that's preposterous." Marcus came forward with an arm around Charles' shoulder, "Captain Treville I would like you to meet my son Alexander and my grandson Charles. He's a special boy; destined to lead us all aren't you Charles?"

The lad gave a fleeting smile before he hung his head, effectively hiding his expression behind the curtain of dark hair. Treville knew it was to avoid the death glare Alexander was sending his son. When the boy didn't reply or look up, his father grabbed his other arm and pulled him to his side.

"Charles has nothing to do with this," he said.

"He dreams of Flares my son; if that isn't a precursor for a great destiny I don't know what is."

"He'd been having odd dreams ever since his mother died," Alexander's grip tightened on the boy, "It's a grieving child's imagination."

"He is a D'Artagnan,"

"He's my son and he's too young for this," Alexander almost hissed at his father, "I told you we'll have nothing to do with this and when you asked for this favor you promised you'll leave Charles out of it."

"I found him on the bridge," Treville felt the need to add.

It wasn't that he would mind someone landing a hit on Marcus's arrogant face but he couldn't let a son believe that his father had betrayed him. He caught the scowl of utter betrayal that flashed for the seconds Charles looked up before ducking his head again.

"I was following you," the boy shrugged, "I didn't know you were going to meet grandfather."

"I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to insist upon coming along," Alexander drew a hand through his hair and shook his head at the obviously vain attempt, "In any case, we're leaving."

"But I just got here," Charles said, "And I haven't met grandfather in ages."

"And for good reason,"

The father tipped his head in the Captain's direction in gratitude and farewell, before he led Charles away into the winding darkness of the streets. Treville watched the man go and turned to Marcus, his curiosity piqued.

"You're quite close to your grandson," he observed.

"We only met once, a few months after his mother died," Marcus gestured for him to follow him inside, "we correspond through letters, as you can see my son doesn't appreciate my presence."

"And why is that?"

The blunt question brought Marcus to a stop in the narrow corridor. Something flickered onto his visage in the dim light and for a second his face hardened, the edges sharpened before smoothening into a mellow smile.

"He is in denial of who we are;" Marcus shrugged lightly, "Now the reason for our meeting tonight, come our brothers are waiting."

Treville dreaded going into the room filled with men who were quickly becoming familiar. They had a knack of going on and on about the lack of happenings from where ever they were posted. In the beginning the Captain had been intrigued to find so many people in various important position all through the nobility of the country, but now he was just irritated at the thought of another man heaving out of a chair and droning on about how he realized that there was nothing going on under his charge.

The Captain took a seat around the long table with a barely concealed grimace. Cardinal Richelieu sitting across him shook his head in disdain but for once kept quiet. Clasping a long object that stood by his side, the Cardinal glanced at Marcus before frowning down at the table, he looked paler than usual but Treville didn't inquire about his health, he was happy to take the small mercies that came his way.

"We are here tonight for an important issue," Marcus sat on the chair between Sebastian and Arkin, "there is a threat on the horizon, a strike coming our way. Should it befall us, it may destroy our Brotherhood."

Treville had grown used to the dramatics very quickly and had grown tired of them even faster. So he wasn't much worried about another eminent doom heading towards them, comfortable in his assumption that it would be another cross-clan knot formed that Marcus would be losing his sleep on.

"The Weaver is at work again," he said.

His words shot through the room like a cold gust of wind that seemed to freeze everyone where they sat. Some made to speak but faltered, others simply shook their heads, it took a while and then furious whispering broke out among few of the men. The Captain looked to the Cardinal and found him staring fixedly at the three men heading the table. The First Minister, the Cardinal, the man who was the closest advisor to the King looked shaken now that Treville looked closer.

Whoever this Weaver was, this person was trouble.

"Do you have any proof?" someone demanded from behind Treville.

Marcus nodded towards Richelieu who brought up the long object from beside him, which turned out to be a container and extracting it contents the Cardinal unfurled a tapestry onto the table. Everyone sitting close to it leaned forward as one and men from afar pressed closer for a good look. It had a black web like pattern on a dark red backdrop and the fine quality that wouldn't have made it seem out of place at a palace.

"This Knot here appeared on its own around three years ago," he tapped the one near one end of the tapestry, "a Knot that appeared out of nowhere."

That sent a new wave of whispering through the group until Marcus rapped loudly onto the table. The silence was instantaneous and the older man nodded towards Richelieu to continue.

"Yes there is a born Knot and it has already Tethered," Richelieu raised a hand to silence the questioning, "No it is not tethered to any known Psychic. That is the problem, it has created two others. About a year ago, my associate felt the tethering; it was powerful enough that we have reason to believe that most if not all Knots in the world may have felt it. "

"Your associate is a Knot?"

"You're working with one of _them_?"

"Yes," the Cardinal didn't even flinch at the accusations, "I am working with a Psychic and this same Psychic had assured me that this born Knot is not a toddler like the Brotherhood had been searching for."

The three men at the head of the table shook their heads, for the first time that night Marcus looked like he didn't believe what the Cardinal had to say.

"We will discuss it later, in private." Marcus said, "Tell us about the Weaver."

Cardinal Richelieu looked like he had sucked on a lemon, but he nodded and pointed to the top corner of the tapestry. It was so deeply embedded that it seemed like a harmless glint of the light on the rich surface unless one looked closer. Treville followed the tracing finger on the fine gold thread that seemed to flow like a thin river on the map, curling and stretching it seemed to move on the edges of all the other threads only occasionally touching on a Knot; its end however was lose, linking to nothing.

"It seems that the Weaver is coming for this new Knot," Cardinal Richelieu said, "We all know that it is attracted to those born as knots, this one is no exception. Marcus however has a way to stop the Weaver for good."

"It is a stone that is believed to be able to strip a Psychic's abilities. I heard about this stone over a decade ago and sent my own son to find it. That he managed to achieve about three years ago," Marcus said, "But he only found half of it, legend says that when it was used the last time the Psychic was so strong that the stone broke in half. We have legitimate reasons to believe that this other half is in France and close to the capital."

"So it's here in Paris?" someone asked.

"Possibly or near the city, we had begun searching through the settlements as soon as we narrowed its whereabouts."

The other men at the meeting wanted to know more about this stone but Treville was more interested in the tapestry the Cardinal had rolled up. He wondered if the d'Herblay clan was there on it and if it was then did the tapestry show Felipa and if it did then did it link her to him in some way and then to Aramis? Because the Captain had no doubt that the Knot that had appeared on its own was for his boy.

As the meeting adjourned, he studied the rather ill profile of Cardinal Richelieu; with the deepening creases around his eyes and the firm clench of his jaw he looked every bit like a man under pressure.

"You are worried about this Weaver," he observed as he drew closer to the man who was getting ready to leave.

"Of course I am. There is a fresh target and the Weaver is moving towards it faster than we had anticipated." He adjusted the collar of his jerkin and the knot of his cloak, "And the Brotherhood is out there looking for a three year old!"

"If the Weaver is a danger to this Knot than why is the Brotherhood so upset about it?' Treville sounded casual although his heart thudded like the stomp of a horse on a battlefield.

Cardinal Richelieu looked at him sideways as the frown deepened the lines on his face. He adjusted the tapestry under his arm and smiled tightly as Marcus, Sebastian and Arkin walked past them towards the main door where their carriage awaited for them.

The two of them stood silently and watched the carriage disappear into the darkness of the streets. Soon the others followed until it was only the Cardinal and the Captain left.

Treville still waited for the answer as his companion locked up the house behind them. Checking one more time that he had indeed left the rooms empty and bolted, Richelieu met the Captain on the steps.

"You know that a born Knot wields power right?" he didn't wait for a confirmation, "and every time a knot is born it is the epitome of darkness, the source of massive destruction wrought by its own hands or that of its tethers."

"It is their destiny to be evil," Treville hoped that the man beside him didn't hear the catch in his voice.

He could not imagine his son as evil and yet his wife had insisted. With a shake of his head the Captain drew a hand through his short hair and narrowed his eyes as the Cardinal began to walk towards his approaching carriage. He fell in stride with Richelieu quickly.

"But why help a Psychic then? Why not let them sort it out amongst themselves?"

"For Marcus' favored, you are quite dull Captain," the Cardinal sneered, "You don't hear the answer even when you speak it yourself. "

As Treville began to speak, Richelieu shook his head and waved a hand at the Captain as though to tell him to to keep his words to himself.

"You said it was their destiny to be evil," the Cardinal said, "Destiny is coming for him Captain."

"This Weaver will make him…."

The Cardinal gave a sharp nod to ascertain his horrified question.

"Wait, how do you know it's a 'him'?"

"I have my sources," the Cardinal shrugged, "I know it's a boy and I'm certain he's not three years old. While the Brotherhood searches for a babe learning to walk, the new source of destruction may already be upon us."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Like I said, I have my sources," the Cardinal swept his cloak around him as he stepped into his carriage, "Keep your eyes open Captain, the shadows are reaching out."

Treville scowled as the carriage pulled away from him an he silently wished that it would find every rut and pothole on its way to the palace. In the empty street he adjusted his cloak around him as his mind raced at the thought of two opposing forces converging towards his unawares son.

* * *

Athos could do with a drink, or two, or more, the number really didn't matter as long as they blurred his nightmares. The recent killing spree haunting the city had supplied ample fuel for his nightmares to burn bright and strong every time his head hit the pillow. He had already woken up with the image of his brother's mangled body, when in reality Thomas had looked peaceful in death. But his mind obliged him with imposing the memories of the recent bodies they had found over the faces of his brother and his wife. It left his waking hours riddled again with circular questions he hadn't been able to answer and with his wife dead; they were likely to hang unrequited over his mind all his life. Why his wife had done it? Had she done it because him? Was she under orders? Was she insane?

He felt the pull on the chain around his neck and looked down at the locket he had gripped unconsciously.

Athos could honestly do with a drink or two.

Taking off his hat, he drew a hand through his hair as he took his seat across from Porthos. In the soft glow of the lamplight he could see the dark shadows glinting in the other Musketeer's eyes. The big man had been unusually quiet, but then Athos wondered so had he. Night after night, coming upon the torn remains of the people of their city hardly left anyone with words to spare. There was nothing to say in the face of senseless brutality, the seemingly aimless violence. He found himself fingering the pommel of the sword he had placed on the table beside his hat and imagined drawing the blade through the madman who was terrorizing their streets.

He looked up when the kitchen doors opened and warm light spilled through. Even if it was nearing midnight, Serge still brought them two steaming bowls of mutton stew. They thanked him with fleeting nods yet neither of the Musketeers touched the food, their appetites suffering from the stress. It hung like a wet rag on their faces, it had been two weeks since the last murder and every one of them was waiting for the vicious strike to fall again. Because fall it will, they knew it was just a lull in the storm, for whatever reason the killing spree had stopped it would return with a vengeance until someone put a permanent stop to the murderer.

Athos glanced at the arched gateway of the garrison and caught Porthos doing the same. They had been assigned to patrol the streets on foot and in pairs; Aramis and Marsac had still not returned. Athos knew that neither he nor Porthos could retire for the night until their friend had made it safely back to the garrison. Although the nineteen years old had been in the regiment for almost a year now and was by no means new to weapons and fights, the two Musketeers still felt the need to keep an eye on him.

There was a good self-preserving reason behind it Athos assured himself, because when the lad wasn't tormenting Serge by 'experimenting' with the food he made that left over half the garrison purging their stomachs then he was found in the armory amidst a number of disassembled pistols and muskets, some beyond reassembling, just to see how they worked. Athos still had to suppress a shudder at the thought of the gunpowder that the younger man had 'enhanced' with something he had bought from a 'friend' that had nearly blown up the garrison.

It was a miracle that other Musketeers not only put up with their new member but forgave him with a surprisingly patient good humor. Athos had been worried at first about how they would take to the former bandit and Porthos, who had never risen to the bait at the whispers targeted at him, had been ready to defend his friend with all the ferocity that the men around them assumed of him.

But Aramis had won the respect of his fellow Musketeers with his superior aiming skill and their friendship with his kindness; he could turn a sore loss into a humorous teaching experience and cheerfully tease the man he was sewing up until his patient would be cursing the man patching him and not the pain radiating from the wound.

His gaze had just drifted to the garrison entrance again when Athos saw a shadow flit across the wall. He stood up as a dark blur ran in to the yard. The man saw the two Musketeers, slowed to a halt, looked back over his shoulder then bent forwards with his hands on his knees and a wide grin on his face.

"Athos! Porthos!" He straightened and spread his arms wide, "My friends, I knew I'd find you here!"

"Since it's the Musketeers garrison and we're Musketeers, I hope the observation didn't cost you the better part of your mission," Athos said.

He moved towards his friend with his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword as he searched the silence behind Aramis, waiting for the enemy he had been running from. He didn't fail to see the eye roll that soon gave way to an exaggerated stagger as Porthos came up and slapped the younger man on the back.

"What're you running from this time?" Porthos laughed.

"The Red Guards,"

"I thought we were done with them after the first two months," Athos said

"Athos, one can never be done with tormenting the Red Guards!" Aramis placed a hand on in his heart in mock horror, "One can never swindle enough money from the Red Guards," he grinned and shook a small pouch that clinked lazily.

"What'd you do?" Porthos asked as he weighed the small pouch and grinned appreciatively.

"After our shift ended, I challenged the new recruits of the Red Guards to a game of targets," he shrugged, "And I may have implied that I'm a terrible shot."

Porthos shook his head and smacked Aramis on the side of the head.

"Hey!"

"That was for the swindling," Porthos shrugged.

"Like you wouldn't have done the same," Aramis groused as took off his hat and rubbed the side of his head above his ear.

Athos cuffed him upside the head.

"HEY!"

"That was for getting caught," he said.

"Oh you're both hilarious," Aramis grumbled.

Athos felt the corner of his lip rise in a smile and Porthos grinned at him. The bigger man threw an arm across Aramis's slim shoulders and helped him rub at the spot on his head where Athos had hit him; he did it quite thoroughly and laughed when his friend squirmed and yelped.

"Not the hair!" Aramis scowled and pushed away from the big man.

He smacked at the large hands reaching for him again and smoothed his dark, wavy locks before plopping his hat back on his head. Smoothing the rim of his hat between his fingers he gave his friends a rakish grin.

"You would be pleased to know I plan to spend this money very wisely." He said.

"On drinks," Porthos nodded.

"On drinks," Aramis affirmed.

"While you were working for this hard earned money where was Marsac all this time?" Athos wanted to know.

"He placed his bets and collected his money," Aramis shrugged again, "last I saw he was running towards the other end of Paris."

Athos had never liked that man and he knew that Porthos held the same sentiments. The two of them hated to know that they weren't there to watch their friend's back and the fact that they had to give up the job to Marsac irked them like an itch they couldn't reach. It wasn't that the other Musketeer wasn't skilled; it was just that he attracted trouble and Aramis did not need help in that department. While Athos and Porthos enjoyed Aramis learning a few lessons the hard way, they never let matters get too far. Marsac just wasn't cut from the same cloth as them and to the two self-appointed lookouts that was a problem.

Aramis had just caught the fat pouch Porthos tossed to him when Athos again caught the stretching shadow on the wall of the arched gate of the garrison. In a flash they turned as one, their weapons at the ready.

* * *

Captain Treville raised a brow as he came face to face with his three Musketeers, each with a weapon leveled to his chest. His men took a second to register who it was then sheathed their swords. Athos and Porthos offered a nod that was both an apology and deference.

"Captain! I thought you'd be in your room at this hour, asleep or praying." Aramis grinned as he shoved his pistol in his holster and rested an elbow on Prothos' shoulder.

"Praying?" Treville inquired.

"Isn't that what people at your age do at night?"

Athos brows shot up to his hairline and Porthos dropped his head in his open palm, but Treville was not falling for the too innocent to be true face before him. He was trying to decide if he should call out his Musketeer on the teasing right now or rip into him at the morning muster.

"But I guess I misjudged you Captain," Aramis grinned and waggled his eyebrows, "You look like someone who had just gone through some exerting night time activities."

This time even the Captain couldn't keep an impassive face, the idea of what Aramis was implying nearly pulled forth an exasperated curl at the corner of his lips. He was immensely grateful when Porthos caught hold of the younger man by the back of his collar and began dragging him out towards the gate.

"Come along Kit before the Captain decides to subtract from you nine lives," the larger Musketeer managed to say somewhere between a choked laugh and a groan.

"Not a Kit," Aramis grumbled although he let himself be to be led away.

Athos offered the Captain a tiny smile and a shrug that spoke a lot more than his words could. Almost a year ago, Treville wouldn't have dreamed such a reaction from his Lieutenant. Despite his newest additions tendency to shake up the world around him Treville still felt that he owed the lad for the thawing in Athos's attitude and the booming laugh of Porthos that often rattled the wooden floor of his second storey office.

It warmed him somewhere in the deep hollow of his chest to see these men together. He may have fathered only Rene and he had handpicked all the other men of his regiment as well, yet these two men held a special place, they were his men, his boys.

"What of your patrol?" he asked.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Athos reported, "We changed shifts with Henri and Etienne then came straight back to the garrison."

"Claudet and Andrew took over for us and it was all clear," Aramis decided to join in the conversation but Porthos dragged him back again, "Wait Porthos, I'm giving my report."

"You wanna tell the Captain what happened then?"

"Yes Aramis where is Marsac?" Treville inquired.

"He took the scenic route Captain," Aramis grinned, "He'll be huffing in through the doors any minute now."

Treville could tell there was something that the men were trying to cover up; it was obvious in the insistent tug with which Porthos dragged Aramis away again and the too blank look that his second in command was giving him. But he was sure that if it was a matter that should not be covered up, his men would come clean.

"Marsac and you three are on the guard duty for the Comte d'Fleurhelm tomorrow. The King's cousin has planned a hunt for the afternoon, a mile out beyond the east villages and His Majesty wishes that there be nothing left in terms of security." he told Athos.

"His Majesty desires the Comte's allegiance,"

"It hangs in balance between France and Savoy," Treville nodded, "I don't need to press how important this mission is. Turn in soon for the night; you'll need to be alert in the morning."

Athos gave a brief nod and turned to leave, but Treville stopped him with a hand on his arm. The Lieutenant raised a surprised brow and looked to his Captain in silent inquiry.

"Be careful out there," he said.

"Always,"

Captain Treville watched his men leave the garrison and hoped that they were instead tucked away safely within the four walls. He had no idea when he turned into a worried father but in the past year he had learned that these three men idle and together somehow ended up in reduced collective judgment. So if Aramis would think it a good idea to go jumping roofs of the Parisian buildings, then Porthos would turn it into a competition and for all his strategizing mind Athos would be right along with them; filled with alcohol but not quite drunk, knowing it's insanely wrong yet fully participating in whatever suicidal task they had set themselves.

Really, it was like they turned into children every time they were out of his sight. With a shake of his head and heavy steps Captain Treville trudged up the stairs, grabbed the lantern from the nail in the balcony pillar and lit it. Holding it up, he made his way to his office and stopped short just inside the door.

A lone figure stood by the shelves in the far wall. Even with her back towards the Captain, the man could recognize the cascade of wavy hair. But it couldn't be so, Treville shook his head, because she was dead, he had buried her.

"Can I help you?" he demanded sharply.

She turned and Treville gasped at the sight of her.

"Felipa," it fell unchecked from his lips.

She smiled and twisted the green bough she held between her fingers. Treville took half a step towards her before his rational mind kicked his awareness and he stopped by his desk. Smiling, she floated towards him like a feather on the wind.

"You're dead," he reminded himself.

"She is," the apparition dipped her head in a nod, "I thought this face would allow me a few seconds of your time and it seems I was right."

"Who are you?"

"I think you already know," she placed the bough onto his desk and offered that shy smile Treville had once loved.

He flinched and gripped the pommel of his sword at his side.

"I see a future riddled with war and strife and I see your men cast into immortality in its pages. Tell me Jean-Armand Treville, are they ready for it?"

"Stay away from them,"

"But how will I know how far they have grown?" she said, "A gardener must look out for the seedlings don't you think?"

In a flash Treville pulled out his sword but the woman had vanished like a wisp of smoke. On his table, fresh and fragrant lay the small bough with little white flowers that she had carried. Lily of the valley, his mind supplied as he sat down on his chair and stared at the flowers on the single bough. That carried a subtle, barely visible brightness. It almost gave it an ethereal quality and Treville had a feeling it did not bode well.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Your thoughts?**


	2. Chapter 2

Sunlight was his enemy; Aramis groaned and rolled over to escape the devious rays only to find empty air. Arms flailing a bit, he fell with a loud thump on the hard floor; the action doing nothing to help him against the brain splitting headache. Moaning deep in his throat he raised a sluggish hand to rake through his dark wavy hair and grimaced when he felt the usually thick soft strands lying slimy and clumped together on his head.

Frowning, he retracted his hand, wiped it on his shirt and blearily contemplated the chipped ceiling that came into his view when he cracked opened his eyes; a glance around revealed bare furnishing of the place where the only thing scattered in abundance were empty wine bottles. He grinned as he deduced that they were in Athos's room, the one he maintained outside of the garrison. If only now he could get to the bottom of the sour fruity smell that permeated the vicinity.

Craning his neck, he stared upside down as Athos pushed himself into a sitting position on the tiny bed upon which the three of them had crammed together sideways. Apparently Athos had been in the middle Aramis mused, as the other Musketeer glared through the dark fringes of his hair that had fallen over his piercing blue eyes.

"No one should be able to glare that steadily after a night like last," Aramis groaned though it lost the impact with the smile that broke on his face at the intensely unimpressed glare his friend was targeting him with.

Athos didn't even lift his head where it hung between his shoulders as he rubbed a hand over his face; scratched lightly at his beard and kicked the legs sprawled out beside him. They slid across the floor like logs but it didn't even prompt a twitch from the man they belonged to. He kicked the nearer leg again, harder this time.

"Get up," he said.

Aramis pulled himself to sit up on the floor as Porthos lifted his head from where it had been pressed against the wall and rubbed the crick in his neck. Athos in the mean time had walked to his window from where he returned with a bucket full of water that had crystallized over the night into not quite ice.

He set the bucket near where Aramis sat, went down to his knees before it and dunked his head in the water. Aramis shot up from his place with a very unmanly squeak and perched himself atop the bed beside Porthos.

He tried in vain to brush off the cold stain spreading on the side of his breeches and cursed his friend's morning routine of attempted drowning, even though he knew he should have known better than to sit on the floor at the time.

"Who ordered fruit salad?" Porthos frowned as he sniffed the air while still rubbing at his eyes.

"Aramis," Athos replied as he went about getting dressed.

"I did not!"

"He's covered in melon," the older Musketeer didn't eve glance up from buckling his belt.

"I'm not!"

Porthos sniffed at him then leaned away.

"Yeah you are," he said.

"Why am I covered in melon?"

"Porthos shot it off your head." Athos slid his sword in its sheath.

"You did?"

"I did?"

Athos lifted the lid of the keg in which he kept water then looked from one man to the other and shook his head as though he was wondering what he was doing spending his time with these two. He turned and picked up the half filled bucket from the floor.

Aramis only got the chance to see him nod to Porthos.

The big man shoved him off the bed and as soon as he plopped onto the floor Athos emptied the bucket on his head. It woke him quite thoroughly and he was still sputtering when the second, third and the fourth bucket of ice cold water was dumped on him.

Before he could manage more than indignant yelps Athos tossed a towel to Porthos who set about drying his hair with more vigor than it was necessary.

"G'off me, get off!" Aramis wriggled and pushed until he could escape.

Darting to gain distance, he managed to send a rather bewildered glower to the big man who broke down in a fit of laughter and even Athos's lips had curled into a half smile. Had Aramis been able to look at himself he would have grinned too at the sight that he was; wet and rubbed dry like an alley cat at the hands of well intentioned school boys.

"Not the hair!" he growled.

He got a lumped up shirt to his face for his anger.

"Now I don't owe you for the one I bled all over." Athos said.

"And what about my soaking breeches?" he demanded.

"You're too old to wet your breeches my friend, its time you realized that." Athos shrugged dismissively.

Porthos laughed harder and Aramis just stared. That was the thing about Athos, people assumed he was an arrogant bore but his friends knew better. While Porthos moved to join Athos at the door, having slept fully in his uniform, Aramis grinned and grumbled as he changed into the other shirt.

"Don't worry 'Mis your coat and boots will hide most of it." The bigger man assured him.

Aramis rolled his eyes because true as it was he still didn't like the idea of walking around in soggy breeches. He decided to change once he got to his room in the garrison and as he began to towel himself off, his two friends exited through the door.

"You two better be waiting for me!" he called after them and hurried his efforts to get dressed.

He had just shrugged on his coat and was hopping about in his struggle to get his boots on when he heard Porthos laugh and the two of them move away from the door. It took him fifteen more minutes to make himself presentable then picking up his hat and locking the door after him; Aramis was off into the streets of Paris.

He dodged the early buyers, squeezed past the stalls just opening and had just skirted around a cascade of filthy water from some oblivious citizen when something rammed in his side with enough force to thrust him in the opposite wall.

It took him a moment to catch his breath and let the spots dancing in his vision to subside. When he blinked down it was to find his arms full of a young woman who was wriggling to get free. He let her go although he couldn't stop the grin.

"Watch where you're going will you?" she snapped.

"I apologize for breaking your fall Mademoiselle although I must say the pleasure was all mine."

She spared him a glare with her big cobalt colored eyes before she was off again and Aramis had to blink when he saw her nearly tackle the man she seemed to have been chasing. He dashed off after her when he saw the man brandish a knife in the hand that was not clutching a purse.

By the time Aramis reached them the woman had knocked away the small blade with the flat round metal the Musketeer hadn't noticed her wielding. Loud thick clangs and horrified shrieks filled the street as people began to pause and stare at the spectacle. For a few seconds Aramis simply grinned as he watched the woman beat the cowering man with a saucepan before his inner soldier pushed him to help the wretched soul that had dropped the pouch in favor of protecting his head.

Seeing no other way which would keep him safe from the vengeful cooking utensil, he simply grabbed the lithe form around the waist and picked her up. He swung her off from the man who quickly scampered away and Aramis deposited the woman on the other side.

A loud smack resounded in his head and Aramis clutched the side of his face where the girl had slapped him.

"Don't you dare lay your hands on me!"

Aramis raised his hands in surrender and backed up a step. He earned another glare from the young lady as she recovered her pouch from the cobblestone surface and the Musketeer cheerfully urged the people to go back to their business.

"….Just a Mademoiselle retrieving her property," he waved away the people and raised a brow at the woman, "It _**is**_ your property right?"

"Of course it is! Aunty said it was a horrid place this city; filled with thieves she said!"

"First time to Paris I see, anything I can help you with Mademoiselle?" he asked.

"And why would you help me?"

"Because I'm a kind hearted man who hates to see a beautiful lady like you in trouble," he grinned cheekily, "and then there's me being a Musketeer and all."

"You are a Musketeer?"

"Please, no need to get nervous about it, we're people like everyone else," he waved a hand in blatantly fake modesty.

The girl who could hardly be past her sixteen years looked him up and down with intelligence in her gaze that far exceeded her age. She dusted off the smudges on her skirt, stuck her culinary weapon in the roll she carried on her back and came to stand before the young man.

"Etienne," she said, "I'm looking for Musketeer Etienne,"

There was no coyness in her stance and the bright face surrounded by loose reddish-brown curls had an air of innocent defiance about it. This lack of flirtatiousness Aramis found heartwarmingly refreshing and couldn't let the chance to tease go by.

"I can help you find him Mademoiselle or I can fill in for him," he wagged his brows, "I can assure you I won't disappoint."

The slap wasn't expected but not necessarily uncalled for Aramis decided as he blinked and rubbed his jaw where the small white hand had impacted. The Musketeer grinned to himself, this was a woman to keep around he decided.

"How dare you imply that!" the woman hissed in disgust, "I'm his sister."

* * *

Athos stared ahead and studiously ignored the Captain's glare that slanted his way during the morning muster. Standing at the front of the ranks there was really no other way to escape the man's ire and Athos mentally berated his absent friend for the trouble. It was with a scowl that the Captain handed him the roll of parchment to pin up on the wall between the storeroom and the armory.

"I thought the Captain would have us mucking stables instead of the guard duty." Porthos rechecked the duty roster Athos had just put up, "Can't say which one's better though."

"It's probably because of the size of the hunting party," Athos reminded him, "And it doesn't mean we won't be mucking stables after."

"Where is Aramis anyway?" Porthos followed him as the other Musketeers began dispersing for their duties, "I thought he was right behind us."

As though on cue the two of them looked across the now empty yard and caught sight of their friend as he walked in through the arched gateway, a bundled roll on his shoulder and a bright faced young woman beside him.

Porthos chuckled and Athos pushed down a sigh, it was far too early for this.

"These are my 'thos! Porthos, Athos allow me introduce Constance." Aramis grinned at his friends, "She's looking for Etienne and just to save you both considerable pain, I'll have you know that she's his sister."

"It couldn't have been that painful for a Musketeer." She huffed.

"It was my pride that was hurt Mademoiselle," Aramis gave her an unrepentant smile.

Athos didn't know Etienne had a sister but then he wasn't exactly one to venture out and strike up conversations with his fellow Musketeers. The two flanking him at the moment were enough to keep him busy.

He was about to ask the woman to return in the afternoon for the brother who had yet to return from his duty when he caught sight of the man in question stagger through the street beyond the garrison entrance. He was pulling along a waning Henri.

As Porthos and Aramis hurried forward Athos caught the woman by the elbow before she could turn to see what the matter was.

"Mademoiselle –"

"Constance, just Constance,"

Athos nodded and gently maneuvered her in front of him in a way that her back remained to the bleeding mess of the Musketeers whom his friends were helping. With a tilt of his head he motioned for her to go on and didn't stop until they had crossed through the threshold of the first room he could guide her to.

"If you would wait in the armory Constance I would see to your brother." he kept his tone soft and bland, "It may be a while but you can wait here, if anyone asks you can tell them Athos allowed you in here."

The big dark blue eyes regarded him with wonder and had he the presence of mind to spare Athos would have been amused by the soft pink streak that came onto the honest young face. He simply led the woman to the corner from where she could not see out into the yard from the open door and left her with a small tilt of his head. He never caught the eager grin that broke on the woman's face at the sight of the neat rows of muskets.

His stomach clenched at the sight that greeted him in the infirmary. Porthos was pressing a rapidly staining rag onto Etienne's shoulder while Aramis was murmuring to Henri as gut wrenching moans escaped the man. Aside from the dagger buried to the hilt in the Musketeer's chest, he seemed to be entangled in a silver wire that clung to him like a vine around his torso. Athos caught the glance Aramis sent his way and stepped out of the room to order Jacques to fetch the surgeon. When he returned to the infirmary Captain Treville was there.

"It was the Shredder," the Captain told him in a low voice, "Etienne says that he was covered in armor from head to toe."

"Captain," Aramis beckoned the two of them as he tried to stop the blood with an armada of bandages that he tied over and around the metal buried in Henri's flesh. The Musketeer had already fallen unconscious.

"The wire is serrated and it's wrapped up tight. If I pull it against its grain it will gouge out the flesh but if I pull it like it's supposed to go it'll –" Aramis paused and swallowed, "it'll shred through skin and muscle, no one will be able to stitch it all back before he dies of blood loss."

"Wielded it like a bull whip that one," Etienne gasped from where Porthos had forced him to lie down, "Couldn't stop him Captain, I fired but he just kept coming."

"He's losing blood too fast," Aramis glanced from one bed to the other.

Athos knew he was talking about both the men and he knew his friend enough to see that he was torn up with the decision about which man to help first. The bandages were staining red far too quickly and it was him Aramis was looking at not the Captain. Ever the older brother, Athos didn't mind the weight of responsibility that settled on his shoulders.

"See to Etienne first, I've sent for the surgeon for Henri," he said.

Aramis offered him a grateful look and nodded to do as he bid. As he began gathering material to clean and stitch the wound a tentative face popped through the open doors of the infirmary.

"Monsieur Athos?" it was Constance, "How long before Etienne gets back?" she asked.

His reply was drowned out by a loud scream as Aramis doused Etienne's open wound with some potent spirits. The young woman startled, caught sight of the man bent over a weakly thrashing form that sounded like her brother and she bolted towards them before any of the men could stop her.

"Let go of my brother!" she shoved Aramis with all her strength and slapped him hard across the face, "Are you insane? Leave him be!"

It was all Aramis could do to keep the pressure on the wound.

"Constance?" Etienne blanched and pushed himself to sit up, "Constance? What're you doing here?"

"Me? What's he doing to you?"

"He's trying to keep your brother from bleeding out." Athos cut in and holding the girl by her elbow he moved her away from the men as Porthos helped Etienne to sit up with his back against the wall.

"Why are you – How are you in Paris?" he gasped as Aramis began cleaning away the blood to get a better look, "And Aramis here is helping me –oh you just – Aramis I apologize."

"You know me Etienne, women can't keep their hands off me," He grinned and looked up from his work to wink at Constance, "And I do believe it is becoming our thing."

While Constance blushed and stammered out an apology, Athos signaled for Porthos to meet him outside. They were going to check the market and the surrounding buildings where Etienne and Henri were attacked, Athos had a feeling they could track down the Shredder; the people weren't likely to forget a man covered in armor from head to toe if he walked past them.

Athos was surprised when he heard the Captain call him to a stop. The man reminded him that they were still expected to travel with the Comte and it was that ingrained restrain that stopped Athos from gaping at his captain.

"We could still catch up with this 'Shredder', if we retrace his footsteps." He reasoned.

"And then what?"

Athos paused, he knew he wanted to end the bastard who had the nerve to move in bright daylight committing murders on the streets, it was just that he hadn't gone into the nitpick of details of how he was going to achieve this.

"We collect any information we have on this man,"

"And I will send one of my men to do so," the Captain nodded.

"He's instilling fear in the people of this city."

"But your duty lies with the Crown not the people," Captain Treville reminded him, the 'not anymore' went unsaid but Athos heard it still.

He was not a Comte; he was no longer responsible for his people, as a Musketeer he did what the King bid him to. Athos nodded and consciously shifted his stance in deference to his superior, out of the corner of his eye he saw Porthos do the same. Over the year since Aramis had joined the regiment, Athos had started becoming acutely aware of the way his two new friends had began looking to him for leadership. He had a feeling that had he walked out of the garrison on his ill-planned mission Porthos would have followed him despite the deep respect Athos knew the man held for their Captain.

It was humbling, it was heavy and it was frightening.

"I will send someone Athos and I will request an audience with His Majesty to discuss the matter," Captain Treville looked him in the eye, "I am aware that this is getting out of hand."

Athos could read the lines of tension in his Captain's shoulders; he had the bearing of a man weighed down by secrets. The Lieutenant knew it wasn't his place to ask but he was privy to at least one secret and he knew that their Captain would have to reveal it to the King after this.

"His Majesty will not be pleased with the nightly patrols you sent us on,"

"Let me handle that," the Captain told him.

Before Athos could reply he noticed the Captain's eyes shifted as the man caught sight of something behind the Musketeer.

"Ah yes! If you're standing here Porthos than it couldn't be Aramis I'm here for." Monsieur Ancel slowly hobbled up to the larger man who took the heavy medical satchel from Jacques.

"Not Aramis," Porthos shook his head almost thankfully; Athos could relate to that.

He followed the two of them into the infirmary and nearly ran into Porthos when the man came to an abrupt halt. He looked over the bent form of their old surgeon and found Aramis on his knees by Henri's bedside. One bloodstained hand clutching the other Musketeer's limp one while his other hand rested over the man's eyes. Athos wasn't a stranger to the stillness that permeated from the man on the small bed and he took off his hat even as Monsieur Ancel shuffled ahead to confirm what everyone could see.

Athos was relieved when the Captain asked Constance to accompany him to his office and wait there for her brother to regain consciousness. Even as she followed the older man out, she looked to Athos as though hoping for a reassurance. Her immediate trust in him easily floored Athos.

Porthos reached their friend first.

"Come on 'Mis" he gripped the taut shoulder, "Come on now,"

Aramis tipped back a bit until he came to rest against Porthos's legs. For a few seconds he leaned into the solid presence behind him before he gave a nod and let his hands drop away from Henri. It was one of the things that Athos always found himself marveling at; while neither he nor Porthos liked taking a life they still accepted it with the cynical stoicism of a man-at-arms but Aramis was a healer at heart despite the frightening number of lives he had taken, often with ruthless precision.

His was a ledger dripping crimson and at times like these Athos had to consciously remind himself of that; this was a man who had put to death much more people than his and Porthos' combined kills.

Yet behind the smiles that he wore like armor whatever this was that his friend carried, this vulnerability, Athos hated it and he loved it. He never wanted his friend to lose this piece of him and hadn't even realized when he had decided to protect it.

"Get a change of clothes Aramis, we ride out in an hour." He said.

Even as he left the infirmary Athos could hear the other two springing into motion and he had never been more thankful for a Comte's hunting party.

* * *

The piece of bread was soft and warm yet it could have been made of straw and the three of them would have dutifully gnawed and swallowed it. Mourning was a luxury they could not afford, not when the King and country called. If at the moment it was to protect a nobleman at his pastime than such was their fate, but that didn't necessarily mean that Aramis had to like it.

He jiggled his leg as he tore the bread roll into tiny pieces, his nails shredding the baked wheat without him even realizing it. He glanced up at the balcony in front of the Captain's office then down at Athos sitting from across him.

"Can't someone else do it?" he asked.

"We do what is assigned to us." Athos replied.

"But he attacked one of us," Aramis said, "He attacked a Musketeer."

"An' we'll get him in time." Porthos patted his back.

"When?

"When we are ordered to," Athos nodded with all the calmness in the world.

"So we wait until he's on our doorsteps?"

"We learn to follow orders," Athos said.

It was the light dip in his shoulders that silenced Aramis, the subtle change in a posture that spoke of a heavy weight of responsibilities. He had to remind himself that his friends didn't like it either. His understanding silence changed the look in his friend's eyes from resignation to gratitude and pulled a nod from the older man. He got to his feet as did Porthos but when Aramis followed; the bigger man placed a hand on his shoulder to keep him seated.

The reason became clear when he saw Constance coming across the yard towards him. It was purely unconscious the way his hand moved to rub the side of his jaw and that earned him a grin from Porthos.

"We'll get the horses," he patted his shoulder once and followed Athos to the stables.

"I knew you couldn't resist these dashing good looks." Aramis pushed to his feet and plopped his hat on his head, "Couldn't stay away for long I see."

She clasped her hands together and exhaled slowly as though physically refraining herself from losing her temper again. The attempt at propriety involuntarily brought a grin on his face as Aramis holstered his pistols. He didn't fail to notice the way her eyes lingered on the weapon not with fear neither disgust nor that morbid excitement that some ladies held in their romantic fantasies. He was surprised to see the curiosity in her eyes as though she was trying to glean as much information about the weapon as she could.

She realized she had been caught staring and blushed pink even as she smoothed her skirt unnecessarily.

"I wanted to apologize, Monsieur," she said, "For back there and thank you for helping my brother."

"Please call me Aramis," he tipped his hat slightly, "I must say that when Etienne talked about his baby sister you were not what I had in mind."

"That's the thing about older siblings," Constance shrugged, "They would always see you as someone to protect; you never grow up in their eyes."

He found himself glancing towards the stable doors before he could check himself. It was odd but Aramis realized he understood what she was talking about, eighteen years after he had been born he had felt it, this sense of older brothers when he had met Athos and Porthos nearly a year back. The realization settled like a warm cloud in the hollow of his chest.

"What better way than a surprise visit to remind him you're all grown up," he grinned.

"I've been told enough times that I'm all grown up, I don't think I'll be forgetting it any time soon," she snapped but then shook her head, "I'm sorry about that, it's not you."

She thanked him again for helping her brother before she bid him farewell and turned back to the infirmary. Watching her leave Aramis couldn't help but feel that he had found a kindred spirit, the deliberate pacing of her eager, fast steps; her flashing temper and her need to act resonated to him and left him smiling.

* * *

A loud shot rang out in the forest and the nearest trees rustled noisily as a handful of birds took flight, twittering and fluttering as they rose to the sky. In the clearing, about twenty servants set up the tables with food and wine while the Comtesse and her ladies sat fanning themselves in the shade of the brightly colored tents.

Porthos had to school his features to keep from scowling at the futility of it all. The death of a comrade fresh in his mind brought to the forefront other deaths at the hands of this Shredder. Most of the victims had been residents of the Court, he hadn't known them personally but he could read the signs, living on the streets marked you in a way that seldom faded. Yet he couldn't go up to them, Charon had made it clear once Porthos chose the life of a Musketeer. He couldn't help the people he desperately wanted to.

Another shot rang out and the ladies jumped prettily before the joyful murmur picked up again. Porthos didn't miss the way the female eyes tracked his friend as he returned after a round of the camp, not that Aramis didn't take pleasure in the attention focused on him; he was more than brazen in the cheeky courtesy he cast their way before he came to a stop beside Porthos.

The big man couldn't help roll his eyes as his friend cast one last cheerful look behind him then settled in a stance both at ease yet alert.

"I knew he'd get frustrated but I never assumed that he would attack in the light of the day, much less attack a pair of Musketeers." Aramis said in a voice surprisingly serious in contrast to his jovial demeanor.

"How'd you know he'd get frustrated?" Porthos murmured.

His eyes roamed over the five Red Guards that Athos had commandeered into position, another five were with the men out in the woods. It wasn't everyday that they got to lord over the Cardinal's men and Porthos couldn't help the twitch of a smile at the sight of the red cloaked men squirming where they were ordered to stand. Misery didn't just love company it enjoyed it, Porthos decided.

He didn't have to turn to face his friend to read the hint of insolence shift through the man's stance.

"I advised some working girls," Aramis looked straight ahead, "You know Jiminy from around the corner? The one with the violin? I told him too. They're the most vulnerable lot; I don't think it was wrong to pass on some helpful information even if we were patrolling in the night. So I asked them to keep in twos and threes and hinted the places the Shredder was likely to strike. And it worked. There hasn't been a death in a while…until today."

Porthos turned to the man wide-eyed, had he known what his friend had done he could have had a good night's sleep weeks ago.

"Why didn't you tell us?" he had to ask.

"Plausible deniability my friend," Aramis grinned and patted him on the shoulder, "If the Captain comes to know about it he wouldn't be able to pin it on you or Athos."

"We don't keep things from each other 'Mis."

"But we do my dear Porthos," Aramis smiled at him, "And we don't let it get in the way of our friendship."

Porthos blinked, and then chuckled warmly; for the first time since the Shredder had taken to the streets of Paris the Musketeer could breathe easy. Feeling incredibly lighter, he watched the Comte and his men as they thundered out of the woods with a sense of urgency in their movement. And then inexplicably, a thick cloud of fog pushed through the trees and unfurled out over the clearing.

Shrieks filled the air as the silverware clattered and the beat of hooves grew louder, but even as the two Musketeers and the five Red Guards formed a defensive line around the civilians the rapidly uncurling fog enveloped the riders and crashed onto the campsite like a gust from the sea.

He heard the whine of the horses as they were abruptly reined to a stop, followed by simultaneous sounds of boots impacting the ground as people dismounted. Someone fired a shot and Porthos moved in what he hoped was the direction of the ladies he was supposed to defend. He couldn't see his own hand, he felt it when he raised it and he felt the pommel in his grip but the thick white around him pressed his view into a range of no more than up till his own outstretched elbow.

"Aramis," he whispered.

"I'm here," a hand rested on his arm, "What is this?"

Before Porthos could reply shots began ringing out in the treacle like mist and even as he ducked blindly, he felt a trail of fire in his flesh. Grunting, he pressed a hand to the side of his upper ribs and clamped down onto the wet warmth. He didn't have to see his hand to know it was covered in blood; the pain alone had left dark spots dancing in his view.

He shook his head in an attempt to regain his balance but then one after the other, loud explosions rocked the world under his feet like a boat caught in a storm.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Reviews are loved.**


	3. Chapter 3

It swept out through the forest like spilled milk and Aramis only had the chance to catch the blue of his fellow Musketeers at the far end of the Comte's men before the thick fog swallowed the world. He was aware of Porthos at his side although he couldn't see the man and his confusion lessened a bit when he managed to grab onto the big man's arm.

It was then when the firing started and he heard his friend hiss in pain before the multiple booms reverberated through the thick mist and toppled him over to his side.

He sensed it then, another presence that hummed of a power that he was familiar with, the same power that flowed within him and answered readily to the call. It flowed under his skin and settled behind his eyes. Aramis blinked rapidly as he sat up with a muffled grunt, he could see now, although the pressing fog lingered as if it was a conscious being irritated at his ability to resume his vision. It left the entire world around him in faded shades of old draperies.

Shaking off the ringing in his ears, he crawled over to where Porthos lay on his side and gently moved his friend onto his back.

"Porthos?" he lightly traced his fingers over the shallow cut bleeding sluggishly near the man's hairline, "Porthos, wake up."

There wasn't even a twitch from the fallen man and Aramis cursed when he found the deep furrow dug into his friend's side. The bullet graze was deep and Aramis wasted no time in pulling the man half way in his lap even as he wrapped his sash around the wound.

"You'll be fine my friend," he told the unresponsive man, "I'll just stop the bleeding and go find Athos, you'll be fine and Athos will be fine too, he'll be really mad at you _mon ami_ and don't think I'll save you from his wrath…."

He kept up the nonsense because in all honesty Aramis couldn't have his two best friends as not fine. He knew he would have to go and investigate who the enemy was but it was the silence around him that was unsettling, Athos should have been at his side by now. The only reason he wasn't was because he couldn't and the lack of clashing metal was a deafening proof that his other friend was not on his feet as well.

"And here I thought you'll be a vicious one." A lilting voice spoke from near him.

Aramis looked up at the woman who shimmered like sunlight on water. With a scowl he pushed to his feet and came to stand between his friend and the silver haired beauty.

"What? You don't like this face?" she grinned and right before his eyes she shifted into the face of his mother. "Is this one better?"

Aramis sucked in a breath and grit his teeth to keep a lock on the pain of seeing his mother's face alive again. He glanced beyond the woman trying to ignore the visage she had taken and traced the clearing that was disconcertingly empty. He was sure that the Comte's hunting party was coming in from that direction; they had made it quite close to the camp before the fog caught them.

" _Your other pet is fine too_ ," she purred in his mind.

"Stay out of my head." He growled.

She only grinned wider and melted into another form, this time she took the face of the Comtesse with deep black hair, the face that still haunted Aramis every time his nightmares brought him back to the clearing where Thomas had died.

Aramis clenched his teeth as she turned and pointed to the clearing with a childlike excitement that felt completely wrong over the face of the woman who had murdered his friend.

"There see? Do you see him? He's there with the horses."

The last remaining shreds of the mist whisked away and distantly Aramis realized that this creature had pulled back the resistance that was hammering into his view. The four horses were visible quite clearly, each facing a different direction and the distinctive blue of a Musketeer's cloak covered the lump in the center of it all.

"I expected more you know," the woman shrugged, "They're not even a sprout yet and you're just breaking the surface."

"Who are you? And what do you want?"

"People call me the Weaver but you can call me Isadora," she smiled.

"What do you want?"

"The question Rene Aramis d'Herblay is what do you want?" she said glanced towards the horses behind them.

With a startled whine the four beasts stomped the ground and clomped a few steps ahead. The Musketeer in their centre shifted, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. It dawned on Aramis what was happening.

"No," he shook his head and broke off in a run.

This witch had tied Athos to the horses; each limb to a different horse, facing a different direction. She was going to tear him apart. Aramis felt sick at the thought of his friend scattered about in the clearing and reached for his sword even as he came to a skidding stop by the first horse. Without a thought he slashed at the thick green vine only for it to twist and turn thicker.

"That won't work," a sing song voice said.

The horses shifted again and Aramis brought the tip of his sword to the woman's neck.

"Stop it," he said.

"That won't work either," she disappeared like a cloud in the wind and materialized on his other side, "At least not until I find a body, even then its highly unlikely."

She shrugged a slim shoulder and flicked her hand, the horse shifted ahead even more.

"You should try something different." she said.

The horses moved again and Athos jerked awake, confusion marred his face as he blinked at his stretched limbs then turned his head towards Aramis. The woman vanished and appeared closer to the Musketeer sprawled onto the ground.

"Hello Athos," she grinned.

"Aramis?!" a chocked scream reached for him.

"I'm here," he dropped to his knees beside his friend and placed a calming hand on his heaving chest. The man eventually stopped straining against the vines that had ensnared him. One of the horses shifted ahead and Athos grunted against the pull in his arm.

" _Stop,"_ it pulled from the core of his power and reverberated into the minds of the beasts that stilled immediately. Aramis felt another presence squirming for dominance.

" _Now you're getting it,"_ Isadora's gleeful voice echoed in his head.

" _Stop it, just stop,"_ Aramis focused on that single order and kept the words going on repeat in his mind, _"Stop, stop, stop…."_

He felt the pressure rise behind his eyes as he struggled for control over the four animals and even as he hacked away the twines of the witch's power he scampered to gain footing of his own. He had to keep calm the agitation in the horses because he knew otherwise it would end horribly for his friend.

His hold slipped on one of his charge and the animal pressed to bolt. A sickening 'pop' cracked the air and Aramis clamped down on the poor animal with far more viciousness. He couldn't find in himself to care for the raw fear of the horse when Athos' guttural cry filled his ears.

" _You really do want to save him don't you?"_ the Weaver looked at him with a grin.

She floated closer and her hands hovered over Aramis' where they clutched Athos. She looked at him in delight and pushed a little against his mind.

" _The Comte d'Fleurhelm has brought a seal of his forefathers to Paris,"_ her voice echoed in his head, _"It so happens that I need it and you Aramis are a perfect man to acquire it for me."_

" _Why?"_

" _Because I know where to hit you to make it hurt,"_ she smiled at him, " _The targets are quite literally walking around unprotected._ "

Aramis nearly sagged when he felt her retreat. His head pounded fiercely as he settled the animals and hated himself for flinching when the woman materialized even closer to him.

Aramis hadn't the chance to speak as the plant sprouted from beside his knee, curled up over his wrists and into his gloves with a cruel burning sting. The nettle reached and stuffed into every corner of his gloves as a mark appeared on the back of the worn leather

" _Just a reminder of our meeting,"_ she spoke in his mind, _"They won't come off until you hold the seal I ask. When you have it you must speak my name thrice and I will come to collect."_

The nettle twisted just a little tighter, " _Remember, no tricks,"_

He bit his lip to keep from crying out loud and when he glanced up she dispersed like smoke in a breeze.

Not wasting anytime Aramis slashed away the vines holding his friend and the man curled onto his side with a barely suppressed groan.

"Easy, easy my friend, don't put weight on it," Aramis murmured as he rubbed his friend's back in soothing circles and pushed down at the horrible sting in his hands. He could feel his friend's muscles quivering under his hold and his heart squeezed at the sound of the ragged breaths that escaped from Athos' legendary control.

Ignoring the scalding throb in his hands, he gently pushed the man onto his back.

"I need to set it," he said when the blue eyes found his.

Athos' jaw was set tight against the pain and his gaze was dulled as well, but Aramis didn't like what he saw lurking behind the haze of agony.

"Athos if I don't put it back now it will get worse." He said as he patted his friend on the chest and flinched at the pain that his instinctual gesture wrought on his hands.

He had half a mind to try to pull off his gloves but he was pretty sure that once he actually saw his hands he wouldn't be able to help Athos and Porthos. Resisting the urge to touch his friend again in reassurance he pushed to his feet. But Athos grabbed his arm.

"Your eyes," he gasped, "they're black."

And there it was, what Aramis had noticed lurking behind the confusion, the shock and horror was clear on Athos' face. The younger Musketeer simply nodded, although he wasn't aware of any physical changes he wasn't surprised if something showed when he used this power that he had.

Without another word he slipped out of Athos' good hand and griped his arm that had been ripped from its socket. Bracing his friend with a knee Aramis wrenched the limb into its place. The loud groan reverberated all around them and as his friend lay there breathing harshly, color returned to the washed out world. Aramis knew that the fog had really lifted this time.

* * *

His entire world was reduced to the agony in his shoulder; it pulsed out to the tips of his fingers and to the base of his skull. Athos swallowed to stay the bile that rose in his throat and measured his breathing as the pain receded into an ache. Blinking clear the moisture in his eyes he stared up at the clear blue sky and squinted against the bright sunlight. His view was blocked when Aramis' face loomed over him.

"That's it, breathe, slowly now, wait let me help you," he eased Athos into a sitting position.

Without warning the image of his friend with his eyes having gone completely black flashed in his mind and Athos shrugged off the help immediately.

"Don't touch me."

Aramis cringed like he had been slapped and dropped both his hands to his side to show that he meant no harm. He nodded towards the shoulder Athos was hunched over.

"Let me help you to get it in a sling," he said, "It needs support."

"I can manage," he kept his voice steady although he did not look the man in the eye.

Aramis bristled and sat back on his hunches.

"Fine, I'd watch you try."

Athos pulled off the scarf he wore around his neck, spread it in his lap and folded it neatly. Stubbornly refusing to look at the Musketeer before him, he used both his hands to tie the corners in a knot then using his good arm he placed the makeshift sling around his neck. Unable to sit still any longer, Aramis surged forward to help and Athos jerked away.

"Don't." he hissed through his teeth.

"Athos?"

"There are others who would benefit from your aid," he pulled out his commanding voice, "Go and see to the wounded."

He hated the resigned look Aramis cast his way but the sight of his wife, the sound of her voice was still fresh in his mind and it had left his shaken. She belonged in his nightmares, in the deep recesses of his consciousness that he filled with alcohol until every tender lie and brutal truth of his love was drowned out. He could not understand how she had been here, how had she been someone Aramis could see, could talk to.

His friend's eyes filled with deep, glinting, unnatural black flashed in his mind again and Athos suppressed a shudder. As he made to stand he saw the Comte limping over to him with a rather dazed Marsac at his heels. The portly man with stubby limbs was red in the face though out of exertion or rage there was no telling. He pointed a thick finger at Athos' face and his dark eyes narrowed.

"You! You will explain this to me! What is the meaning of this Musketeer?" Comte D'Fleurhelm demanded.

Athos did not appreciate the finger wagging in his face. He arched a brow at the fuming Comte, his gaze worth freezing the fires of hell.

"Control over unprecedented weather changes unfortunately falls a little out of our authority my lord," he said.

The Comte's finger stilled, he frowned as though in contemplation the deflated like a punctured sack of feed and frowned as Athos surveyed the damage.

The tents had collapsed and the ladies were all huddled together on the far end of the silken pile. A few servants were on their feet as were two Red Guards. The attack seemed to have been focused onto the campsite if Athos was to judge by the number of Comte's men standing about gawking while the wounded servants and soldiers lay scattered in the grass.

"Porthos," he frowned.

Marsac clutched his swelling wrist closer to his chest and nodded towards Aramis who was bent over a prone form.

"Porthos' wounded but not fatally. He's better off than some of the others, gained consciousness before Aramis left his side." Marsac supplied, "Oh and Aramis says you should look for a way to get us back to the city."

Athos nodded, he knew that Aramis was offering the distance he had asked for by allowing him a valid reason to not go and check on Porthos while the younger man was still there, tending to him. The Lieutenant didn't know if he should be glad, gratefully or thoroughly irritated.

"I will not stand for this!" the Comte snapped at the two of them, "Your medic has denied me his services!"

Athos looked back from where Aramis was had returned to Porthos' side, he couldn't fault the man even if he was familiar with propriety and politics. Their friend always tended first to them unless there was a fear of imminent death for another wounded.

"He is not a medic, not officially." He said.

"He carries the healing supplies."

Athos carefully looked up and down the disheveled Comte before his piecing gaze met directly with the nobleman's.

"Are you in danger of bleeding out my lord? Internally or otherwise?" he asked.

The Comte made to reply but then closed his mouth with an audible snap of his teeth. Athos watched as Aramis waved over Marsac and began bandaging his wrist, he ignored the seething nobleman at his side and went to see the condition of the carriages.

Once he was sure that he could at least get the noblemen and women back to the palace he went to collect the horses with the remaining Red Guards. Some of the animals have broken lose and bolted into the woods, it took quite some time to track all of them. He had never been afraid of these animals even when he had finally taken his place in a saddle for the first time. He had been eager to mount the horse after spending all his young life watching his father ride. Yet when he reached for the reins that day he couldn't help the slight hesitation, never again would he look at a horse and not respect the strength of the beast.

He looked around when he heard footsteps approaching; from the sound of it he knew it was neither Porthos nor Aramis.

"Aramis doesn't have enough supplies, he says we need to at least get the nobility back to the city and send litters for the others." Marsac told him, his own wrist was wrapped tight with a handkerchief.

Following his line of sight Marsac shrugged, "He's saving the bandages for the bleeders but most of the injuries among the servants are closed ones."

"The Red Guards?"

"Seems like they were caught in the firing line of the panicking nobles," Marsac said, "That's how Porthos got grazed."

Athos nodded as he left the horses to the two Red Guards left standing and went in search of his friend. In the time that had taken him to secure their transport, Aramis had managed to gather up the wounded in some semblance of order and had stabilized them for the time being. He found the younger Musketeer sitting on the barrel Porthos was leaning against and without permeable Athos crouched before the big man. He had not been one for tactile assurances up until a year ago but now it was the most natural thing to reach for his injured friend's shoulder.

"I think I'll go for mucking the stables next time." Porthos grinned at him.

"But it looks like at least this time you'll be excused," Athos arched a brow at the tightly bandaged sash that supported a purple stain; thankfully it wasn't as soaking wet as he had expected.

"You'll be left out of it too," Porthos nodded towards his shoulder before he sent a wide grin towards Aramis, "Looks like you'll be shoveling crap all on your own Kit,"

"Or I could ask the Captain to forego the punishment owing to my commendable services in the aftermath of this noble-born shooting squad." Aramis tossed back as he leaned forwards with a smile and stopped just short of shoving Porthos on his shoulder.

Athos found it odd because both his friends were inclined to touch, a poke in the ribs, a bump of shoulders, a slap on the back, still he refrained from calling Aramis out on it. Instead he patted the big man's shoulder and pushed back to his feet.

"Most of the servants can ride back, although it'll be painful for the few who cracked ribs," Aramis informed him, "Tent poles and frightened feet," he added by the way of explanation, "the Guards will need to be carted, multiple wounds, they may have stabbed each other in confusion."

"We'll need someone to stay back with the wounded," he said.

"I'm staying, so is Marsac." Aramis spoke up, "take Porthos with you."

Athos nodded, he hated that he could not look him in the face and didn't miss the subtle drop in his friend's shoulders.

"I am staying?" Marsac frowned then shrugged with a nod, "I am staying."

"I'm not leaving you here," Porthos said, "Not after whatever the hell that was."

"Yes you are," Aramis countered before Athos could; "You are going back to the garrison where Monsieur Ancel will wrap up the wound; stop the blood for good and save it from infection. The sooner he gets it done the better."

"He's right Porthos the faster it's cleaned the better, I'll come get you when we have packed up," Athos told his friend, "Aramis a word?"

He didn't wait to acknowledge the surprise with which the younger man shot to his feet and followed him away from the rest of them. They came to a stop halfway to where the Comte and his party were getting ready to leave. Athos fleetingly met the warm brown eyes but he could not bring himself to forget the demonic look he had witnessed there.

"What happened here?" he asked.

"I don't know, Athos I honestly don't." Aramis sounded tired.

"That woman, the one you were talking to, who was she?"

Aramis shrugged and stopped just short of clenching his hands into fists.

"She said that people called her Weaver but I could call her Isadora."

"Do you know her?"

"No,"

Athos nodded and absentmindedly rubbed his sore shoulder, he hadn't realized how worried he was at the thought of Aramis knowing his wife. Still it only brought more questions to his mind instead of the solace of answers. He couldn't understand how he had come face to face again with the woman who was dead, who had been executed on his orders, whom he had seen hanged. And then there was the whole other list of questions regarding Aramis himself.

"Your eyes, they were…."

"Black; you told me remember?"

"How?"

"I can do things Athos, I don't know how and I don't know why but I can do things. Maybe that's why my eyes changed."

"What sort of things?"

"Things with my mind I guess," Aramis shrugged helplessly, his voice was achingly soft and nearly a whisper when he spoke again, "Are you afraid of me?"

"I saw you," Athos knew it was not the answer his friend wanted but he could not give an honest reply, it was too soon.

Aramis nodded as though it was the answer he had expected and Athos couldn't ask what his friend had derived from his words. He wasn't sure that he would like it.

"What are you?" Athos hated the question the moment it slipped out.

"I don't know," Aramis took off his hat and drew a hand through his hair, "I don't know."

* * *

Cardinal Richelieu stood beside His Majesty's chair in the lavish study and listened to the Captain of the Musketeers as he explained the danger of a certain killer wandering the streets of their city. He had not obtained the latest report so he could not judge how much of Captain Treville's words were true, not that he pressed for daily updates from his man.

"Fine, fine, what would you have me do then?" His Majesty huffed irritably as he propped his elbow on an armrest and placed his chin in his hand.

"I have gathered information concerning his whereabouts, if Your Majesty should order we can move against him in a matter of hours," said Treville.

"Should we not let the Red Guard handle it Your Majesty?" Richelieu spoke up lest the King was spared time to actually think about the Captain's words.

He ignored the sideways glare Treville sent him and moved just a step closer towards the King. He was after all His Majesty's closest advisor.

"The Musketeers did start an investigation without the orders from Your Majesty," the Cardinal's tone implied the dereliction of duty, "And the Captain does admit that his men aren't equipped to handle this man."

"They were not prepared for him," Captain Treville was quick to point out, "He wears an armor that our weapons could not pierce."

"Did your men not know that they could encounter this person in the streets?" His Majesty inquired as he examined his nails.

"Your Majesty, he had never attacked in daylight," Captain Treville explained, "We lost a man today, the other was injured. Please allow us to bring this murderer to justice."

Cardinal Richelieu clasped his hands behind his back and inclined his head towards the king.

"Well if I must then I will, I'll send my men to get rid of this threat Your Majesty," he said.

The King beamed and sat up straighter. He managed a little happy clap and grinned at the Captain.

"There you go Treville, Richelieu will see to it!" he said, "No need to get so despondent over the matter."

And that was the end of it.

It was when Captain Treville had been dismissed that the Cardinal felt the urgency to talk to the man. He knew that even if His Majesty had officially assigned the job to the Red Guards still Treville and his band of trigger happy maniacs would find a way to 'accidently' interfere in the matter. And Cardinal Richelieu would not have any disruptions in this.

He stopped the Captain in the courtyard. Treville was not pleased when the Cardinal emerged from behind the tall hedges.

"Now what?" he asked.

"I just wanted to remind you to keep an eye on your men," the Cardinal said, "This is the Red Guard's business now and I will not tolerate the Musketeers just 'stumbling' onto the action."

"I don't know what you're implying," Captain Treville shrugged dismissively.

The Captain made to sidestep but Richelieu stopped him.

"You don't understand, he will not stop until he has finished his job." The Cardinal lowered his voice, "He is a brother."

He did not anticipate the tight scrunch of his collar in the Captain's fist neither had he expected to be feel the sharp stab of clipped twigs in his back, it took him a few seconds to realize that he had in fact been pushed up against a hedge. There was bloodlust in the sharp blue eyes regarding him and the Cardinal couldn't help the smug grin that stretched over his teeth when the Captain shook him.

"He's a Watchman," it wasn't a question from Treville, "The Brotherhood set him up."

Cardinal Richelieu snorted, as if Marcus and his dithering fools could come up with such a daring plan. They wouldn't take such a risk, not when they searched the country for a giggling three year old. It was their absolute lack of interest in his findings that had pushed the Cardinal to such extreme measures, and what he wouldn't give to see Marcus humbled and chastised.

The blue eyes boring into him narrowed.

"You – you sent him." The snarl was feral.

"He is looking for the born Knot, it is his sole mission." The Cardinal shrugged, "Once he's dealt with the Knot, he'll bring me the remains and disappear, leaving no more than his terror behind."

Captain Treville paled like his blood had just drained out a fatal wound. He stepped away from the Cardinal with an ashen face and bloodless lips pressed tightly close. Richelieu watched him contemplate the ground before him until he looked back up, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He stared long and hard at the Cardinal before he shook his head and walked away as though in a daze.

Adjusting his collar and smoothing his jerkin, the Cardinal turned back to the palace with a swirl of his luxurious red cloak. He paused in the long corridor when he felt the sunlight shift behind him and turned around just as the woman emerged from behind a pillar, her silken gown hardly producing a rustle at her movement.

She plucked a leaf from the nearest topiary and twirled it between her fingers. Milady watched the way Treville had left before she looked back to the Cardinal.

"He seems far more upset than I anticipated," she said.

"He's a sentimental creature," the Cardinal shrugged a shoulder, "You are certain that the armor he wears will save him from every weapon?"

"Our Scholars are far more powerful than those of your brotherhood's," she leaned against the pillar and gently tore the leaf in a clean half along its spine, "the best your Scholars can do is make healing potions, we managed that ages ago."

"The armor –"

"Will not be penetrated and will only be released by your order," she said, "Or when he has finished the work assigned to him."

* * *

 **TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

He should have at least tried to shuck them off the second she had disappeared, should have taken the chance when he had it, but now he was just too scared to lay his eyes on what was beneath the leather covering his hands. He gritted his teeth against the fresh spark of agony as he pressed down harder onto the Red Guard's chest. The man gasped out a scream and Aramis glanced back over his shoulder.

"Where the hell have you been?!" he demanded from Marsac.

"I'm not a bloody seamstress you know." The other Musketeer growled as he carefully laid out the thread he'd salvaged from the many ruined shirts of the wounded.

The Red Guard between them whimpered and Aramis ignored the reek of wine coming from his slightly wobbly comrade.

"The ladies love a scar with a good story, you'll be the tormented hero they can take care of," Aramis offered a tight smile to the man gasping under his hand.

"Go to hell,"

"Not if you're getting there first," Aramis lifted his hand and checked the blood flow.

He hadn't wanted to perform a surgery out in the field with what limited knowledge he had of the matter but the man had soaked through too many bandages. Aramis needed to stitch him up and that meant he needed to get the bullet out first.

"So François, any particular lady you want to impress?" he asked as he upended half a bottle of wine on the open wound.

He thanked the Comte's love for alcohol that had resulted in the ample supply at hand while his patient cursed Aramis through his teeth. Marsac cleaned one of Aramis's boot knives with the rest of the wine. François groaned loud and long when the tip of the knife pushed under the musket ball and leveraged it up and out of the wound.

"Amy," he ground out.

"No it's Aramis," the man smirked as he threaded his needle.

"The girl I'm going to marry,"

"Really? Is she blind?"

"She's beautiful,"

"I'm sure, but touched in the head then?"

"She's perfect."

"I don't think so, she chose you didn't she?"

François frowned and reiterated in a murmur how beautiful the girl was before he succumbed to unconsciousness with a smile on his face. Aramis finished stitching up the wound and sat back on his heels. He wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist before he wiped his fingers onto a rag that once upon a time had been a part of the marquee. New gloves were in order he decided and cast a glance at the small group of injured men in various positions between lying and sitting up.

Getting to his feet Aramis whistled the combination for his mare and felt a surge of affection when Risas trotted out of the woods to greet him. He had won her soon after he had left home, from an owner who wasn't much disheartened over the loss of an animal that he apparently couldn't control. She had seen him through some of the darkest moments of his life, even through the loss of Isabel and their unborn child and as he leaned against the strong flank of his horse Aramis couldn't keep from wondering if she would have to see him through another loss.

Athos had seen what he was and he hadn't liked it, there was no doubt in Aramis' mind that he would tell Porthos and that would be the end of it. He would lose the only two friends he had actually wanted to keep and all because of this _thing_ he could do. He was a monster, even his mother had been cautious of him long before she had actually showed the signs; and seeing that same distance, that quite reserve in Athos had brought back his last evening at his home.

Risas snorted over his shoulder and his hair that he had tied back tickled his neck.

"Makes you wonder what it's all for doesn't it?" Marsac walked up to him, "Blood of a soldier spilled for what? A Comte's entertainment?"

"At least no one's died," Aramis said.

"Yet," the other Musketeer shrugged, "We don't know if all of them would make it, and if they do there's always the next noble waiting to go on a hunting party."

"You my friend are a bitter drunk," Aramis plucked the bottle of wine from the man's fingers and sniffed it before taking a gulp himself.

It didn't numb the ache in his head nor the sting in his hands, he handed it back to Marsac. The man seemed to need it more he decided, questioning the sanity of an insane world as he was. Aramis liked to believe he didn't mind it himself, most days he loved adding to the chaos that was life but then he found himself wondering if there really was something wrong with him.

"My father was a soldier you know," Marsac added, "Mama said he died for the King, died for honour."

"So did mine," Aramis surprised himself with the reply.

"Yeah?" Marsac nodded like he understood something though for the life of him Aramis couldn't say what, "Makes you think doesn't it? Left dead or crippled with a mourning family. And for what? It's bloody senseless!"

"We do it for honour,"

"And what does an ex-bandit know about honour?"

Aramis didn't deny the life he had lived just a short year ago but his hand reached for the pauldron that he had deposited on his saddle when he had taken off his long coat. Picking up the stiff leather bearing the fleur-de-lis, he turned the engraving towards the other Musketeer.

"We bleed side by side and we don't leave a man behind, that's honour." He said and suddenly another clearing in another time flashed before his eyes.

 _They skirt the lip of the clearing to guess the distance between the four high watch towers and the ruined castle beyond. The night is lit by many campfires but each one belongs to their enemies and they keep a cautious silence as they scope the area…._

 _He isn't one to easily follow other people's plans, having lived by the trust in his own instincts. But Athos's and Porthos are different, they are familiar and dependable in a way that is scary, he has only just met them. But he isn't surprised by himself when he accepts their plan._

" _All for one," Athos says._

" _And one for all," Aramis adds without really thinking about it._

Aramis shook his head because that wasn't honour; that was something else, something just among the three of them or so he had hoped. His eyes narrowed when Marsac gave him a wide grin, it was a brutal thing, all sharpness and teeth.

"So we choose honour," he raised his bottle; "We live a lonely life and leave no one to cry over our graves."

Aramis snatched the bottle away before Marsac could take a drink.

"The Musketeers, the regiment, that's who you leave behind," he said, "You die a Musketeer and your regiment would mourn you."

"Would you mourn me Aramis?" it was just above a whisper and Marsac's own eyes widened.

He dropped his gaze from Aramis' face to look down at his hands and scowled fiercely at whatever he saw. Aramis pried the cork free from his comrade's other hand and closed up the wine bottle. Securing it in his saddlebag, he threw an arm over the man's shoulders.

"Of course I would," he said.

When Marsac looked at him again there was awkward gratitude in his gaze. It dropped quickly and the man rubbed the back of his neck with a snort.

"I have a feeling you would haunt me if I wouldn't," Aramis grinned, "And who wants a drunken ghost following him around?"

Marsac snorted again and shoved him off. They turned together at the sound of approaching horses and Aramis was relieved to see that the carts had arrived.

* * *

Porthos watched Monsieur Ancel putter around in the infirmary and glanced at Athos who stood leaning against the doorjamb. His friend was there physically but it was clear that he was wandering on a different plane behind the cool blue of his eyes. Swallowing back a grunt, Porthos adjusted the pillow behind his back and turned to the surgeon.

"Why don't you see to Etienne Monsieur? Constance took him out for some fresh air."

Monsieur Ancel glanced from the man on the bed to the man in the doorway who showed no sign that he had heard the conversation. With a nod the old man clutched a few rolls of fresh bandages and hobbled past Athos, it was unsettling how the Musketeer didn't regard him as he passed him by.

"Athos," the big man called out, "Athos?"

His friend's eyes slid to him, the man pushed away from his support as he came forward and wordlessly sat down on the bed from where Porthos had drawn up his legs. His head was tilted exactly enough for the rim of his hat to cast his face in a shadow just so, while it may have once come off as aloof boredom now the same posture screamed at Porthos that his friend needed to get something wrangled off his mind.

"Did he say something?" Porthos asked.

"Who?" Athos looked up at him in surprise.

" 'Mis who else? Something happened between the two of you," Porthos chuckled at the look of mute wonder that flashed across Athos' face, "You wouldn't have left him there as easily as you did, he wanted to get rid of both of us too. And you didn't go with the carts to retrieve him."

He arched a brow in challenge for the other Musketeer to deny his claim but his friend exhaled softly before he pulled off his hat and deposited it on the bed on his other side. Drawing a hand over his face, he rubbed at his beard and let his shoulders drop.

"I thought I saw a ghost today," he said, "Only Aramis could see her too."

"Maybe it wasn't a ghost."

"It was," Athos snapped at him before he shook his head, "I apologize my friend, I'm sure that the woman I saw could not be alive and Aramis, he is different, he admitted to that."

"Different?" this was news to Porthos, "Different how?"

Athos opened his mouth to speak but before he could explain Captain Treville crossed the threshold of the infirmary. His eyes went from one Musketeer to the other and his face was leeched of colour. Porthos could have sworn their Captain had come across an apparition as well.

"I think I can explain that to you gentlemen," he said.

Then to Porthos' surprise their Captain closed the door behind him. He marched up and down their rather small infirmary checking corners as he went before he closed the only window the room had. They watched in silence as the Captain came to sit on the cot next to Porthos'.

"First you need to explain what happened with the Comte today," Captain Treviile said.

He listened quietly as the two Musketeers explained the odd attack, Porthos knew that his friend was hiding something when he mentioned the ghost but he didn't call him out on it with the Captain there. He listened silently when Athos told them about what Aramis had said about this ghost.

"Weaver? Are you sure that's what he said?" The Captain asked and when Athos gave a nod to affirm he let his head drop in his hands.

Porthos wasn't sure how to react to that, their Captain wasn't the man who would sit on the edge of a cot clutching his hair like a man lost. He was not the man who would look this defeated. The big man glanced at his friend for guidance but Athos only offered a slight shrug.

"It's worse than I thought," the Captain spoke at length, "You two need to know this but not a soul out of this room should hear a whiff of it."

Porthos listened to the man explain to him things that he had heard whispers of in the Court of Miracles. Only there was no showmanship, no enticing description nor any alluring promises, just simple facts, cold and harsh. Athos for once was staring at their Captain with unveiled disbelief as the man went on about Knots, Tethers, and Watchmen.

"And this Weaver is a danger to a born Knot; we cannot under any circumstances let Aramis come into contact with her again."

"What sort of danger?" Porthos had to ask.

The Captain hesitated before he looked his soldier in the eye.

"A world threatening sort of danger."

"And how do you know all this Captain?" asked the injured Musketeer.

"I have my sources," Treville said, "On both sides."

Porthos whistled soft and low, he could tell that the Captain was not divulging some details and he wasn't sure if he should be glad or insulted. He looked to Athos who had yet to blink since their Captain had started talking.

"Athos?" he prodded gently.

His friend stood up with a jerk and moved towards the shelves set in the far wall. He reached for the bottle of brandy and pulling open the stopper he took a gulp large enough to make Porthos flinch. The Lieutenant made his way back to his perch with the bottle still clutched in his hand.

"That is for medicinal purposes," Captain Treville said.

"I'm not feeling particularly well," came the bland if rather hoarse reply.

Porthos snorted and shook his head; he looked to the Captain to go ahead with his explanations since it seemed that the man hadn't been done with his piece. Treville pointedly avoided looking at his second-in-command who had brought the bottle to his lips again but had taken a considerable smaller amount.

"Now this Shredder is sent by one of the Watchmen," Captain Treville told them, "They fear the threat to the world that this Weaver poses by coming for a born Knot and this Shredder is supposed to take the born Knot out of the equation."

"Aramis," Porthos couldn't help but wonder if this Weaver person would come for his friend again in that clearing, "We left him there alone."

"You believe all this?" Athos' inquiry was loud despite it being no more than a whisper.

It might have been because of his life at the Court of Miracles, or because he had witnessed a ghost of a living woman in a forest some three years ago when the Comtesse had asked them to murder a Comte's brother, Porthos didn't wish to go into the details but he had no problem believing the Captain's words.

What he found odd was that Athos did not. He knew that the man didn't talk about his past but Porthos could read between the lines, he knew a noble born and bred when he saw one. He knew this was the Comte whose brother's murder had been a task offered to him and his friends; and he had later found out that the ghost-woman who had approached them was the Comtesse. It didn't take a lot of brain power to connect the two but Porthos was surprised that his friend appeared to have not known about his wife's witchy abilities.

He grasped Athos by his uninjured shoulder and waited until the blue eyes met his.

"Why do you not?" he asked.

"How are we these –" Athos closed his eyes for a second and gathered his bearings, "According to the Captain we're both tethered to Aramis."

Porthos couldn't decide if he should be shocked that it wasn't the lack of rationality that was a problem for his friend but the utter weight of being somehow linked to another human. In that moment, with his eyes wide and rounded Athos looked like he had never before, Porthos had never seen him look so damn _young_.

Shifting his grip from his friend's shoulder to the back of his neck, Porthos gave it a gentle squeeze.

"It's pretty obvious if you think about it," he smiled, because all the Psychic stuff aside they were in a way linked to each other; had been the second they had crossed paths. Even before Aramis the two of them had shared a hostility that had still left them spinning around each other. He couldn't see what was so wrong with adding to it on some supernatural plane.

"You can't deny being our friend Athos."

Porthos was well aware that it was the first time one of them had audibly acknowledged their friendship. He hoped that he wasn't overstepping the easy camaraderie that had developed between the three of them.

Athos nodded, glanced from him to the Captain before he shifted out of Porthos's hold and stood, grabbing his hat as he did. Placing it back on his head, he gave another nod to the two of them before he walked out of the infirmary.

* * *

There wasn't enough air in the infirmary, there wasn't enough space either and Athos inhaled deeply as he sat down on the bench in the yard. Resting his elbows back on the table he tipped his head up until he could see the sky beyond the rim of his hat. Sometimes there wasn't enough air and space in the entire city and he imagined himself back in the gardens of his father's château at the time when the estate wasn't his, when it wasn't an estate at all but a home. With sunbeams in the rooms pooled at the foot of long windows and a garden full of adventures ready to happen. He could still hear Thomas' childish squeals of delight if listened hard enough.

"Heard you were caught in an ambush, any idea who it was?" Etienne walked up to him.

Psychics and Watchmen and people just walking up to talk to him, what was the world coming to Athos wondered quietly. The Musketeer before him somehow took his silence as an invitation to sit down on the bench beside him and Athos had to ponder exactly when had he turned into an inviting personality for the general public.

"I just wanted to thank you Athos," Etienne winced slightly, "For keeping Constance away when I stumbled in the garrison as a bloody mess."

Athos nodded and hoped that it signaled the end of conversation. From the corner of his eye he watched Etienne scrub a hand over his face and contemplate his boots.

"I just sent her to the inn to get some rest," he said with a shake of his head, "It's not easy being an older brother you know, you do everything you can to keep the little ones safe and they would pull the most dangerous stunts anyway."

Unbidden in his mind came the time when Porthos had jumped off his galloping horse to tackle a bandit, followed by the image of Aramis dropping down into a flaming stable through the roof to save the horses.

" _Hey Porthos shoot this, shoot this," Aramis grins as he places a melon on his head._

Athos closed his eyes and nodded empathetically.

"It is indeed difficult," he said.

"Our aunt took us in after our parents died, she raised us the best she could and now she's set up Constance to marry this cloth merchant in Paris," Etienne said, "And my sister just ran away, she's come to me to tell me that she's only sixteen and would like to do something remarkable in her life before marriage. She's sixteen, she's a woman; what else is she to do but get married? "

Etienne looked at his empty hands lying in his lap as though the answer would just fall into them from the sky above. Athos took pity on the man and handed him the bottle of brandy. The other Musketeer raised the bottle in a silent salute before he took a mouthful.

"She says she'll only marry for love," he shook his head at the idea, took two more gulps from the bottle and snorted with a grimace; "She never did care for what the world thought."

"How is an unmarried woman supposed to live alone respectfully and not bring the honour of her family in question?" Etienne wanted to know and since no answer was forthcoming, he took some more gulps from the bottle.

"She says Bonacieux sounds dull and I can't force her Athos. She's the only family I've got."

Athos nodded and took the bottle back from the man; the alcohol seemed to have pulled down any barriers that the man possessed while he had been hoping Etienne was the silent broody drunk.

"She's my baby sister, I want what's best for her but she won't listen. And what sort of a brother does it make me if I don't guide her?" the man asked.

Before Athos could be forced into answering a distinct clink reached his ears. He turned his head to the sound and found in the arched gateway of the garrison a man covered in black armour from head to toe, his metal bullwhip was looped in his hand and the dagger at its tip glinted in the afternoon sunlight from where it hung. The Shredder turned his head fully to scan the yard through his visor even as Athos moved fluidly to his feet with his sword at the ready.

He wasn't the only one; every Musketeer in the yard dropped what he was doing and moved to stop the intruder. Some fired shots from over their heads and the musket balls pinged off the chest plate, not even leaving a dent where they had hit.

They needed a plan Athos knew that as he searched the armour for a weak point, his gaze roamed the black metal for any patch of flesh left unprotected.

"How dare you set foot in our home?" Etienne growled, sounding quite inebriated from beside Athos.

The man lunged forward with his sword raised even as Athos barked at him stop. It took just enough time to blink in which the thin metal wrapped around the man and the dagger landed in the hollow under his neck. Etienne's wide blue eyes met his own before a sickening, squelching whir sounded and Athos closed his eyes against the warm spray that landed on his face.

"Wait!" a booming voice broke through the dull buzz that had begun in Athos' ears.

"No! Porthos get back here! That's an order!" the Captain shouted from somewhere behind them.

Athos didn't even register when Porthos, despite his wounds, pushed through the line of men and came to stand before the Shredder. His throat went dry but the big man wouldn't look at him. Porthos' ferocious scowl was set on the armoured figure before him.

"You want the knot right?" he demanded.

The metal creaked as the Shredder looked up in the face of the man standing before him in his shirtsleeves, yet exuding power by his sheer courage. The visor of his helmet wobbled a little as the Shredder nodded.

Porthos leaned closer to the man and Athos itched to grab him and yank him back. He found himself beside his friend with his fingers tangled in the back of his shirt. He was close enough to hear Porthos talk to the murderer.

"I'm tethered to 'im," Porthos said, "Take me and he'll come looking."

"No." Athos yanked the man back, "No you won't."

"It's the only way to save others," Porthos voice was low as he gestured to the men on their other side, "He takes me to catch Kit and he leaves the rest of the city alone."

"Fine then, take me." Athos turned to the Shredder.

The situation would have been comical if it wasn't so desperate Athos decided, as the man in the armour looked from one to the other. Standing this close he could see the pale eyes behind the shadow of the visor.

"Porthos! Athos! Back the hell down." The Captain growled as he reached them.

But then the decision was made for them as the Shredder raised a spiked gauntlet clad hand and grasped Porthos. The man went willingly although Athos didn't miss the flinch as the wound in the big man's side was jostled.

The Musketeers moved to attack.

"Don't!" Porthos and the Captain bellowed in synch.

It didn't stop Athos as he lunged forward and the metal whip curled through the air. He was pulled back sharply at the last moment and strong arms kept him put. Athos didn't register it was the Captain holding him; he didn't feel the strain as he tried to pull away and he didn't realize where he was until the Captain had dragged him back to the bench in the yard. He could only watch the street corner around which the Shredder has disappeared with Porthos.

"We'll get him back Athos," the Captain assured him, "He bought us time, we'll get him out of this."

* * *

 **TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: A big Thank You! to all those of you who favorite, follow and review this story. Your support is always a huge motivation to write and especially for this chapter because for some reason this one just wouldn't write itself. And when it finally started to flow I decided to cut it off somewhere to prevent story asphyxiation but couldn't decide the point to break it off, so you get the entire chunk.**

 **For Debbie: Thank you for reviewing! I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Ok let's see, I'm not absolutely sure if d'Art would make another appearance in this story, but so far I don't see it happening. He will probably make another guest appearance in the next story I'm planning and will be a regular star in the one after that since I'm trying to converge it with the cannon story line, to some extent at least. And no he's not a born knot, that's still Aramis, I kind of started off with that thought when I wrote the first part of this series. But yes, d'Art's grandfather had a point, he will have an important place in the scheme of things, not to say that Athos and Porthos won't, I love them all really, they're all important in different ways. They're a set of brothers, I can't not have one without the other, I just adore their relationship and I should stop here because I'll just go and on and on, so yeah... stopping now. Thank you for sharing your thoughts! I'm stopping now in earnest. On with the story...**

* * *

Having escorted the Red Guards to their barracks the two of them followed Jacques, the garrison stable boy, through the narrow streets of Paris. The Captain had sent two more Musketeers with the carts, Cluzet and Jean-Pierre rode ahead of him while Marsac trailed behind like a sullen, hung-over cloud. There was a strange subdued touch to the air of the city and Aramis frowned at the way the citizens watched their small procession. He glanced back towards Marsac and found him scowling at all and sundry. Eyes followed them down the street and dismissing the prickle settling like an itch between his shoulders Aramis wondered if Athos and Porthos would forgive him for keeping his abilities a secret. Anticipation and dread mixed into an odd flavor of anxiety as they crossed through the garrison gates.

He didn't miss the way other Musketeers turned sharply at the sound of their entrance, their swords halfway unsheathed and their pistols raised steadily. No one joked about it, but cast weary glances at each other and offered a nod to the new arrivals. His keen eyes sought details like the way the Captain hurried out of his office and onto the balcony, the unnaturally still form of Athos at the table in the yard and the muddy patch on the ground that looked suspiciously red.

Believing Athos to still b be angry at him, he dismounted from his mare, handed the reins to Jacques and met Treville at the foot of the stairs that led to the Captain's office above.

"Another attack by the Shredder," the Captain answered his silent inquiry.

Athos hadn't even looked up at his arrival and Aramis couldn't keep from frowning at this completely next level of coldness. He nodded distractingly for the Captain and eyed the soaked patch of earth near the garrison gates.

"Etienne didn't make it,"

Aramis whipped his head back to catch the Captain's gaze, he stared in confused horror, because the last time they had met Etienne was injured, he wasn't to be sent out on any duty, he was to stay in the garrison….so that meant….he glanced again at Athos with unspoken relief and his eyes darted towards the open doors of the infirmary. He fervently hoped that Porthos was in their sleeping.

"Porthos…." The Captain began and Aramis felt his breath caught, he mutely shook his head. He was suddenly acutely aware that he could not think the man dead, after surviving the loss of so many people close to him it was strange how this one loss threatened to break him like none had before.

"He's alive Aramis, he was alive last I saw him and I have a feeling he still is." The Captain hurried to explain.

Aramis looked to the side when he noticed Athos twitch; he couldn't see the man's face since his hat was pulled down low. His head swung back to their Captain as a thousand scenarios went through his head and none of them good.

"Last you saw him?" it came out just a touch away from a growl.

"I think it'll be best if we discuss it in my office," the Captain said, "Athos you're coming too."

A part of Aramis was glad of the Captain's forethought because he was holding on to his control by a stretching thread and watching Athos march up the stairs after Treville wasn't helping. His friend's face was still hidden by the slanted hat and Aramis was itching to pull the damn thing off.

It was with a greatest effort that he ignored the stony presence of Athos and listened to what the Captain told him about what had taken place in his absence. He silently cursed his friend's self-sacrifice and dared another glance towards the other man standing in the Captain's office.

"And you let him?" Aramis asked as his gaze went from the quite Lieutenant to the Captain, "You let him go with that maniac?"

"He did it for you," Athos spoke quietly.

The chilly blue gaze was hard, calculating and far more piercing than any blade Athos could wield. There were rust colored speckles of dried blood on his face and the man gave nothing away as he pinned Aramis with his eyes.

"For me?"

"You really don't know," Athos' head tilted a bit in observation before he nodded at the Captain, "I think you need to fill him in." he said.

"Captain?"

"Remember when we first met your mother told you that we had known each other once before?"

"Yes,"

"Well she had told me things, things about you…"

It turned out that the personal secret he had been keeping wasn't that personal at all. Aramis teetered between shock, indignation and an edge of embarrassment as their Captain explained to him in a terribly concise manner what he was and what it meant. Aramis didn't dare look at Athos, he couldn't understand how but it seemed that he had dragged the man and Porthos into whatever this mess was. He was a Psychic, a Knot that was born, something that made him wrong; but these two men hadn't asked to be tethered. Aramis wasn't braced for the guilt that hit him, his friends hadn't volunteered to be a part of this and he clenched his fists at the thought that he should have had understood somehow, should have had the grasp of his _abilities_ as the Captain put it.

"So this Weaver will use me for….what?"

"Destroying the world," Athos replied blandly, "It seems that a lot of important people have you overestimated."

Aramis flinched despite the small part of him that hoped that Athos had spoken in jest. But he couldn't be sure of his place with the man right now, not until Porthos was safe and he could seek forgiveness from both the men.

"Do we know where this Shredder is based?"

"It's not difficult to trace a man of his appearance since he had started coming out in the daylight," the Captain nodded and pointed to the map he had spread onto his desk, "He is hiding out in an abandoned limestone mine here."

Aramis looked at the map, noted the place, reserved it in his memory and asked the Captain what his plan was. He hardly paid mind to the man explain the number of men he was collecting to launch an attack in the depth of the night. In truth he only needed to know when the Captain meant to move against this enemy so that he could know the time he had in which to act. Because one thing was abundantly clear to Aramis now, this Shredder and this Weaver were _**his**_ enemies, _**his**_ responsibility.

"So as a rule my abilities as a Psychic wouldn't work on Watchmen and you are certain this Shredder is one of them?" he asked.

"Yes,"

Aramis wanted to know exactly how the Captain was certain of this, after all it couldn't be information that his mother would have passed on to him as the man claimed for the store of knowledge he had just displayed on the matter. But Aramis was hard pressed for time, Porthos was in danger. He asked the Captain to be a part of the rescue mission and wasn't surprised when he was denied.

He left the Captain's office with a plan of his own. He was down the stairs, across the yard and into the stables when a hand on his arm stopped him. It took him a moment to register Athos' inquisitive gaze focused on him.

"And pray do tell where you are going," he said.

"I'm going to get Porthos back," Aramis dragged out a pair of ragged bandanas from his saddle bag, "I'm going to stop this Shredder once and for all."

"Our weapons don't work against him neither will your abilities,"

"Maybe someone much more powerful than me could use theirs then," Aramis shrugged as he tied one bandana over his head and wrapped the other on the lower half of his face. When he was sure that he had the proportions right he pulled it down and bunched it under his chin.

"What are you planning?"

"She wants the seal of the Comte d'Fleurhelm that he has brought to Paris," he said, "If I can get them together they are bound to go for each other's throats; Psychic and Watchman."

"Not necessarily," Athos reasoned.

"Fine then I'll tell her that I've given the seal to the Shredder,"

"She would ask you to get it back and she will not ask kindly," Athos shook his, "She could've gotten the seal from the Comte herself if she could have."

"Then it's a bargain," Aramis gave him a mirthless smile, "She's powerful Athos, the Captain said the Watchmen are afraid of her. I will give her this seal in return for freeing Porthos."

"They're both after you; I don't see how it's still not a suicidal plan,"

"I have to get Porthos back," Aramis mounted his horse.

Athos grabbed the reins of his mare and Risas pawed the stables floor. Each held the leather retraints, pulled taut, yet not hard enough to draw away. Blue eyes met brown like a blade sliding against rock.

"You're going to steal from the Palace." Athos said, "The same Palace you have sworn to protect."

"Porthos' life is in danger."

"The Captain is planning –"

"The Captain will only lose more men," Aramis cut him off; "It's the only way."

"You're a Musketeer," Athos reminded him.

"All for one," Aramis nodded and jerked the reins free from Athos. He pressed his heels into the flanks of his mare. The animal instantly broke into a cantor even as he exited the gates and rode out into the streets.

* * *

He was tired, his side ached and the powdery air that hung about him tickled the back of his throat. He was glad he had remembered to put on his jerkin before he had left the infirmary because they were deep enough in the caves for the chill to settle like a dusty layer on his skin. Porthos glanced at his captor who stood straight, with his back towards the Musketeer and his face towards the slanted glow of late afternoon sunlight that had managed to permeate the gloom this far.

"It's the armour isn't it?" he asked, "Pinches when you sit eh?"

He wasn't sure when he had gotten used to Aramis chattering his ear off but he was missing his friend, his observations and comments had somehow become the white noise that settled Porthos' nerves. The Shredder didn't budge and Porthos huffed as he plopped down on the cool floor of the cave, kicking up a puff of dust. The big man sneezed violently, inhaled sharply on a reflex and found the dust scratching within the hollow of his throat. Within minutes he was doubled over coughing.

The slightly wheezing Musketeer looked up when he heard light footsteps shuffling towards them. A female silhouette cut the pale light from the mouth of the cave and Porthos cleared his throat as he squinted to capture the features of the woman who stopped close to the Shredder. She stuck a hand in the basket she carried and offered a loaf of bread to the man clad in armour. Her eyes never lifted to the black helmet and she flinched when the dark gauntlet took the bread from her hand.

A timid glance was cast Porthos' way before it skittered over the dark metal and the eyes again dropped to the ground.

The Shredder gave a jerky shake of his head as though to answer some unspoken question.

"He is hurt," it was barely above a whisper.

Another jerky shake creaked in the silence.

"I could give him water," the woman didn't look up from the floor.

"No," the hollow voice boomed.

"But he is bleeding,"

"No,"

"But –"

Porthos looked to his side in surprise and frowned when he felt the bandages around his wound had gone sticky. He looked up at the sound of metal moving and was on his feet before the hand had completely risen in the air. He pulled the woman back and behind him.

She whimpered and the hand paused. The Shredder abruptly dropped his arm and marched down towards the entrance of the cave. When it seemed that the he wouldn't be looking there way again, Porthos turned to the woman.

"Hey, you're alright," he grasped the sniffling creature by her bony shoulders, "It's alright,"

She nodded even as she dried her eyes with the corner of her sleeve and swayed a little as Porthos let her go. Adjusting her basket on her arm, she shuffled back a bit.

"Thank you," she murmured, "That was a big risk."

Porthos cocked his head to the side but didn't say anything. He wanted to know who this woman was and why was she here except to offer sustenance to a man ready to beat her, but he wasn't blind to the way she kept her gaze in check, stood at a distance and just a little turned away from him as though ready to hunch against an attack or bolt if need be.

"He isn't always like this," she stammered out against the silence, "Wasn't, he wasn't like this. Not before he – he was a kind man, he wasn't this –"

"Monster," Porthos finished for her.

Dark eyes too big for the narrow face looked up at him in surprise and the woman shook her head quietly.

"My husband is a kind man, he would do anything for his family," she cast a glance at the rigid figure, "He had done everything for his family."

"Madame –"

"Clarence, my name is Clarence," she tucked a pale strand of hair behind her ear, "Why has Alan brought you here?"

"It's a long story Madame," Porthos shook his head, "You are aware what it is that your husband does?"

Clarence jiggled her head in both a nod and a shake.

"It's that wretched armour," she said, "It changed him."

"Then why doesn't he get rid of it?" Porthos had to ask.

"Because he can't," she very nearly snapped although it dissolved in quite tears, "It will not be penetrated by any weapon and only the man who ordered it is able to release my husband from it."

The woman gathered her arms around herself as she looked up at the Musketeer.

"He hasn't even paid my husband yet," she said, "Alan did it all for us and he hadn't even received what he was promised."

He was no stranger to desperation, he had skirted the edges of morality and barely held on to its frayed threads when hunger had tried to gnaw out of his belly and cold had circled like a vulture over his head. A thump of metal announced the Shredder returning to them and Porthos shifted in front of the woman.

The man in the armour gave a jerky nod towards the entrance.

"Leave," he told the woman.

Porthos heard the rustle of her long skirt as she moved from behind him. He tracked her with his eyes as she crossed from in front of the Shredder and moved forward only to stop when the gauntlet clad hand caught the slim arm. The woman gasped and Porthos started, but even in the dim light he could tell there was no force behind the hold.

A strange choked sound reverberated in the cave and then the man in the armour let her go.

Porthos watched Clarence leave then glanced back at the Shredder. For the first time since he had gotten to heard about this murder he surprised himself by thinking about the man in the armour. The face behind the helmet, the heart under the chest plate and just like that a plan began forming in his mind.

Clamping a hand onto his throbbing wound the Musketeer sat down on the ground and idly toyed with a rock larger than his fist.

"She's a beauty that one," he said, "Clarence, it's a pretty name."

He wasn't surprised when the Shredder rounded on him. Porthos grinned and winked at the man.

"I'll be taking good care of her when you're gone," he smiled, "Her an' the little ones, a cozy family it'll be don't you th –"

The kick to his side echoed all the way into his head. Gasping and still grinning he scooted back against the wall. There was no way to escape the leg swinging towards his ribs again and Porthos simply rolled with it as the impact on his injured side had him grunting.

He pulled a sharp inhale as his forehead came to thump against the floor and he exhaled slowly. Aramis and Athos would have his hide for this, Porthos was absolutely sure of it.

"She needs a man in her life you know," he gasped out, "Since you can't watch over your family all proper like –"

The Shredder's spiked foot stamped down hard on his thigh and Porthos choked out a scream. His fingers scrabbled against the rather large rock he had been toying with. As the spike under the armoured toe dug into his flesh, Porthos grit his teeth and slammed the rock as hard as he could against the black metal foot.

It didn't leave a dent in the metal but it did get the foot dislodged from his thigh. The Shredder bestowed on him one last kick and stalked off. Porthos heaved in gulping breaths as he pulled himself up against the wall of the cave. He could feel the blood soaking his breeches and he groaned softly as the movement sent tremors of pain out up to his head and down to his toe.

With shaky fingers he touched the sluggishly bleeding hole in his thigh and felt the jagged rim of the spike embedded there. The fiery pain licked at his consciousness and the dust clumped red under his leg, Porthos felt the spike again and grinned.

* * *

It was not a good idea; it was far from anything remotely masquerading to be a good idea. At best direct and at worst detached, he was the last person to be the compassionate messenger of devastating news. But the Captain seemed convinced otherwise. That was how Athos found himself standing in the tiny room at the inn, standing in awkward indecision, while the red-brown curls of Etienne's sister shook as the bent head sobbed quietly.

His mind was miles away to wherever that Shredder had taken his friend and he was absolutely not worried about the other fool who had went to rob the Palace of all the places. Athos caught himself before he could question himself as to why he hadn't reported the impending theft as he was supposed to. Life was so much easier when he didn't care he thought and that brought him to the upsetting revelation that he did care in the first place.

He forced his attention back on the bent head that rose at length after the initial sobs had tapered off. Her quite tears didn't stop even though she nodded as though collecting herself. Then she looked to Athos with big wet eyes.

"What am I supposed to do now Monsieur Athos?"

There weren't many things that visibly startled the ex-Comte but the question was one such rarity. He stared at the young woman who was for some reason looking to him for guidance and the Musketeer wondered what he had done to deserve it.

"Etienne had nothing but respect for you," she murmured as though she had read his thoughts, "His letters spoke highly of your ability to stay calm and plan ahead. Said you were the steadiest man he knew."

He suddenly remembered many a drunken walks that he had made to his rooms in the dead of the night and Athos pulled off his hat to wipe a hand through his hair. Crossing the distance between them he stopped in a crouch before the girl perched on the edge of the bed.

"I don't know anything except that your brother wanted what was best for you," He told her, "He wanted you safe and happy."

"My aunty would be so mad," she sniffled a little, "I should write to her, tell her where I am what had happened."

"That would be a good start," Athos said, "The regiment would see to the funeral arrangements."

He had just enough time to catch his balance as the girl threw her arms around his neck with a half chocked sob. With his hand in the sling effectively pinned between them, Athos divided his weight on his toes and used his other hand to awkwardly pat the mass off curls that was obscuring half his view.

"Thank you," she mumbled, "I'm sorry – I –"

Her stammering was drowned out by the loud knock on the door. The person on the outside didn't wait for a reply and knocked again, the punch of urgency was clear in the sound. Athos got to his feet and pulled open the door.

"The Palace," It was Jacques from the garrison, "There's been a robbery at the Palace."

Athos didn't wait to hear further orders sent for him, he was out the door and down in the street before Jacques could follow him. He mounted his horse and once in the saddle he pulled off the sling and stuffed his scarf in his pocket. The voice in his head sounding too much like Aramis berated him for his rash action and Athos was happy to point out that it was all the younger Musketeer's fault anyway.

He reached the Palace before the Musketeers from the garrison. Dismounting smoothly from his ride he scanned the gardens and spotted the red cloaks flapping in the breeze as the guards rushed after something far to the left. Dodging topiaries and jumping over the trimmed lower shrubbery Athos tracked their chase before he ducked into the shadows of the taller hedges.

Raising his pistol in one hand he quietly prowled forwards to the edge of the winding green archway he had found himself in. The sounds of the Red Guards were still at a distance when the dark blur darted past and Athos tackled it to the ground.

The man under him struggled and was about to knock an elbow into Athos' face when the Musketeer hissed at him to stop.

"Just don't," he growled and taking advantage of the younger man's shocked stillness he dragged him into the shadows.

"Athos? What're you – hey!" Aramis reached for the ornate wooden box that Athos pulled free from his grasp.

The Musketeer shoved him back. Athos opened the lid of the box and as he had expected the Comte's seal was nestled there securely in the velvet lined container. He shook his head in disbelief.

"Athos please –" Aramis cast a glance towards the nearing voices of the Guards.

He looked around the hedge then turned to his friend; Athos could read the panic in the brown eyes. He ignored the hands motioning at him to toss the box their way and picked up his discarded pistol. The loud curses of the Red Guards were clearly audible; if they listened closely they could even hear the harsh labored breaths nearly brushing the back of their necks.

"This archway leads to the other end of the garden," Athos said as he ignited the wick of his pistol.

Aramis' eyes rounded when the muzzle of the pistol pointed to his chest.

"Punch me," Athos told him.

"What?"

"Do it!"

Though he had ordered it himself the hit was jarring, the shot went wide like he had planned but Aramis was still there. His friend was leaning over him, brows furrowed in concern and fingers reaching for the smarting cheekbone.

Athos shoved him off again.

"Go," he waved towards the way he had come through the green archway.

Aramis cast him one last look before he disappeared into the shadows of the tall hedges and curling vines. The Red Guards flocked onto Athos the second his friend's receding footfalls had silenced.

"I got the seal," he showed them the box and pointed in the opposite direction, "but he ran off that way,"

The five heavily breathing men gaped at him then looked to each other as though waiting for one of the others to say something or at least make a move towards the box Athos held.

"I don't believe he will find the way to prison himself gentlemen," the Musketeer raised a brow.

That pushed the rather bewildered men into action and Athos watched them with veiled amusement as off they went in the direction he had pointed them to. Putting his pistol back in its holster he rubbed the side of his jaw, it may have been enough to sway his balance but Athos had a feeling that the blow to his face was glancing. There was a high chance that the bruising would be light and effectively hidden under his beard. It was the least his friend could do he decided, after all Athos hadn't particularly asked to be punched in the face, Aramis could have gone for a comfortable gut shot.

Feeling sufficiently ruffled he looked up to see the Comte himself, high in rage with a couple of servants at his heels, making his way towards him. Holding the box in both hands, lid open to show him the seal at the first glance, Athos approached the nobleman.

* * *

There was something missing in the streets, she had only been in Paris for a few days and even she could feel it. The stalls were fewer, the haggling half hearted and over quickly, it made her quicken her pace to the shop. She would need a lot of parchment to explain her actions to her aunt and to ask for forgiveness. The small part of her that petulantly didn't want to admit her actions as wrong made her sniffle in aimless anger.

It wasn't fair, her brother had always done what he had wanted to do; no one bothered pointing it out to him that he needed to find a wife and settle down. Maybe someone should have told him she thought, that way she might have been able to find solace in his children.

But no, it was only her that was supposed to find a good husband, a good match, a good catch. As far as her aunt could see that was the only purpose of her existence. She would bloom like a rose her aunt had said like it was the best thing in the world.

But Constance could see that being a rose meant that she would spend the rest of her life like that beautiful flower trapped to dry in the pages of some gentleman's forgotten book. She didn't want to be a dainty, blooming rose, she wanted to be a thistle; growing wild in its tenacity, fearless in its ability to protect itself against those who tried to trample it and eventually get scattered to the winds, only to spark more life somewhere in a far off land.

As she made her way down the cobblestone street, fresh tears stung her eyes and not for the first time in her life she wondered what was wrong with her. Why couldn't she find womanly pursuits like she was supposed to? Why did she wish for a life that wasn't hers and not be thankful for what she had?

She was so deep in her own sorrow that she almost ran into the woman who stumbled out of the alley. Constance rocked on her heels to keep from bumping into her and hastily wiped her tears.

"Help me please," the silver haired woman cried, "It's my son; he won't wake up!"

Constance looked at the dirt streaked face, contorted with distress and nodded immediately. The woman waved her hands, reached out but stopped short with a wince as though she expected the girl to be disgusted by her.

"It's alright," Constance grabbed her hand, "It'll be alright,"

The silver haired woman smiled gratefully and led her into the alley; it was only then that the girl realized the cold touch to be oddly light like the mist. When the world blurred and the silver haired woman grinned, Constance let out a muffled yelp.

It blew out like candle flame in a high window, unheard and unseen.

* * *

He didn't have to report to the Captain because the Comte had called him to the Palace and was for once happy with the Musketeer since he had saved a family heirloom. Athos handed the reins of his horse to Jacques, moved past the Musketeers preparing for the mission come night and slipped into Aramis' room without knocking.

"And one for all," he announced as he tossed something on the cot on which his friend was perched, with his elbows on his knees and his head hanging low.

Aramis looked up at him, then back down at the bejeweled seal settled over his scratchy bedcover beside him. His jaw worked as though to find words but he only managed a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob.

Athos regarded the younger man who still had to touch the seal he had been intent on achieving.

"You could have just let me steal it," Aramis shook his head, "It wouldn't have incriminated you."

"It won't incriminate me," Athos stepped further into the room, "The Comte saw the seal in its box himself before the box was taken away,"

"How…?"

"I was actually paying attention when Porthos was trying to teach you to palm a card," Athos said.

Aramis offered him a sheepish smile. But there was something about the scene that was nagging Athos, it was something about his friend that had been different ever since the disastrous hunting party. Something that had nothing to do with all the knots and tethers nonsense. Athos frowned as he searched his mind to pick out what he felt odd.

His friend's hair had been tied back since he had arrived, he hadn't been wearing his hat and coat, his shirt sleeves were rolled up but he still wore the gloves. It was the gloves that were the oddity here, Athos frowned, he knew the younger man preferred clean hands for tending wounds; besides, gloves made the stitches sloppy.

"Aramis?"

"Hmm?"

His friend picked up the seal to examine it closely and Athos' eyes widened when a soft glow fused out from the rim of the gloves that his friend wore.

Aramis looked down at his hands in wonder.

"I forgot about that," there was nothing happy about his smile.

Athos stood rooted to the spot as he watched his friend grip the edge of a glove finger between his teeth and pull off one, then the other. Pink, blistered, raw skin came to light and his own breath paused as Aramis' breath hitched.

Athos looked from the trembling, burned hands to the face that wouldn't rise to meet his eyes. There was a barely concealed shiver racking the frame of the younger Musketeer and the silence stretched like the draw of a bow.

"I should wash it…" Aramis trailed off as he stood abruptly.

The seal fell from his lap with a soft thud; Aramis bent, picked it up and dropped it with a hiss. It broke through the cold fear and _rage_ that had frozen Athos.

"Sit. Down," he snapped.

Of all the suicidal, insane stunts that these two pulled – they should be glad he was not the screaming type Athos told himself as he rescued the seal again, pushed his friend back to sit on the bed none too gently and stalked out of the room.

He was seething as he made his way to the infirmary from where he filled a large bowl of clean water, grabbed a roll of bandages and the essence of aloe before he made his way back to Aramis' room. He glared at the rather terrified looking young man. He could feel the eyes tracking him as he placed everything on the table beside his friend's bed and hooked the chair closer with the toe of his boot.

"Athos –"

"Not a word," he growled.

Balancing the half full bowl of water in his lap he gently wrapped his fingers around the wrist of one damaged hand and carefully guided it to the water. The pull against his hold had him glancing up and he didn't miss the flash of fear that crossed those widened brown eyes.

Something stuck in his throat and the older Musketeer wished that Porthos was there.

"When he was little," Athos paused and cleared his throat, "My brother would end up getting stung by nettle a lot, yours is much worse but I'd say that's what happened."

Aramis nodded but remained silent.

Athos was afraid he would draw blood from where the younger man was biting his lip. Slowly and carefully he maneuvered both hands into the water and tried to pretend that he hadn't heard the tiny whimper that had escaped his friend.

"Why didn't you –"

"I couldn't,"

"Why didn't you tell me?" Athos finished his question.

He was already drowning in his anger at himself for not noticing, for not asking, for not considering that there was something seriously wrong with his friend and it hurt him somewhere deep that Aramis hadn't bothered to share it with him.

Anger, like the thrum of a charged air of a stormfront, quivered through his veins and it was all Athos could do not to punch something. Not when he cradled his friend's shaking hand between both his own. Pushing down the urge to find the culprit of this injury and slice her open with his sword, Athos placed the bowl between his feet. Not looking up from his work, he softly applied the essence of aloe over what remained of the blistery white skin that was dotted with small red spots in places.

Then they just sat there until the shivering in Aramis' hands lessened and Athos finally let them go. He stood up to clear the things when Aramis spoke up.

"You needed distance," he said, "I don't blame you for wanting that, anyone would after what you saw. I would want distance from what I am," Aramis shook his head and sucked in a breath, "And you were already afraid of me and I didn't want to …."

"You thought I wouldn't care," Athos closed his eyes momentarily and silently cursed the Weaver for coming into their lives.

"She wanted it to be a reminder," Aramis stared down at his hands, "But when I got here I forgot. When the Captain told me about Porthos and that Shredder…."

Athos came back to sit in the chair before his friend, this time with the bandages though he knew that he shouldn't wrap this injury. He would wait until the skin had cooled, he would wait until sundown, give it as much time as he could but he couldn't risk chafing the skin clear of the hands. Because Aramis would need to use his hands when the two of them would go to save Porthos.

The twitch in Aramis' hunched shoulders had him reaching out with a hand callused by years of fencing that settled over the back of the younger man's neck. He gave it a reassuring squeeze. It seemed to break the hold of the silence that had settled and Aramis finally looked Athos in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he chocked out, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…."

Athos pulled him close until their foreheads connected, he held on as his friend clenched his eyes shut but still failed to keep the few silent tears from escaping out of the corner of his eyes. He did not let go until the soft trembling in the younger man subsided and even when he pulled back he still gripped Aramis' shoulder.

Blue gaze met brown.

"As am I my friend," Athos said, "As am I."

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Yes that happened. I'm sorry if it comes off as out of character, I tried not to make it too sappy but there you go.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Everyone who has been reading this story thank you and I'm really sorry for the delay. There is no excuse except I hit a wall with this one. Even though I knew where the story was going, the words for it just weren't coming. There's been so many drafts for this one and I'm still not satisfied; but so proud of myself for getting this chapter out.**

* * *

They hadn't taken the horses and they had left the garrison before twilight. By the time the two of them came to a stop in the grove of trees the last glow of the day was dimming. Before them was the rough open expanse leading to the rock face and the dark gaping hollow that held their friend.

"You think she would just appear out of thin air?" Athos asked.

"She did last time," Aramis shrugged.

He closed his eyes and said Isadora's name three times under his breath. He would have felt foolish if he wasn't hoping so fervently that it would work. They had until the night set in properly, then the Captain would be riding in with his men and Aramis feared that it would end in a blood bath. The only one he hoped was capable of stopping this Shredded was the Weaver herself.

"I don't think that worked," Athos scanned the surroundings with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"It worked fine,"

Both men drew up short at the voice.

Aramis had expected the sound of his mother's voice or that of the Comtesse who frequented his nightmares, he had never imagined Etienne's little sister to emerge from behind a tree in that grove.

There was stiffness in her movements and an edge in those big dark blue eyes that had Aramis glancing Athos' way. He was immensely grateful for the carefully neutral look the man wore, but it was the gaze leveled at the young woman that assured Aramis. Athos was searching, picking out details, weighing their options, forming a plan and if there was one thing Aramis had learned; it was that his plans always worked.

"I apologize for the wait," Constance wiped the blood that had trickled down her nose, "this body isn't used to my abilities, not a Psychic this one."

"What did you do to her?"

"Me? Oh no, she accepted to help me," Isadora smiled, "not exactly for this but…"

Aramis watched her shrug and move closer, the swing in her walk and the flirty smile on her face was so grotesquely wrong that it left him cringing. Here was an innocent, grieving young woman, a vibrant, fierce spirit cast in the control of this creature.

" _Constance?" he tentatively nudged the presence of Isadora._

" _Sneaky," Isadora gloated, "But you finally understood how to use it,"_

" _Constance?"_

" _Aramis?"_

The girl's voice sounded muffled and so surprised was Aramis that he pulled back abruptly from the power he had tapped in.

"She's there," he turned to Athos, "somehow… "

"Oh she's in here alright," Isadora tapped the side of her head, "won't give up,"

Aramis flinched at her words but his eyes still sought Athos, who swallowed hard as though trying to keep the nausea at bay. It was their unspoken dilemma; they couldn't run her through the sword, not when there was even a little chance that the young woman before them was still somewhere in a twisted prison of her own being.

"Now I believe there is something you have to give me," Isadora said.

Aramis took the seal out of his pocket and raised it for her view. The receding light of the day caught in its multicolored jewels and reminded him of the strain of time they were under.

"I need something in return," he said, "two things."

Isadora cocked her head to the side as though studying him, her calculating and cold eyes felt wrong on that face.

"You free Constance from whatever this is," Athos nodded, "And you help us defeat the Shredder."

"Do you believe you're in any position to make demands?" the lilting cheer in her voice was icy.

"We certainly do," Aramis clenched the seal tighter in his damaged hand, "You can do what we ask or you don't get this bloody seal you're after."

"What makes you think I can't take it from you?"

"You would have stolen it yourself if you had been able to," Aramis said and smirked as he remembered the words Athos had said to him, "But you needed me to do it for you, you could have had anyone else to do it for you too, but it had to be me hadn't it?"

Things slowly began clearing in his thoughts, he glanced towards Athos and could tell the exact moment it dawned on him. A tiny smirk curled onto the older Musketeer's face.

"It has to be Aramis," Athos said, "It has to be him to give it to you, something to do with being a born knot."

Isadora flinched and scowled hard, the uncharacteristically harsh expression twisted further into a demonic sort of rage. The wind picked up speed around them, wisps of foggy white swirled at her feet and from beside Aramis, Athos gasped.

Aramis caught him as he swayed; his eyes were clenched shut, shoulders rigid and teeth grit against an invisible assault.

The younger man's anger simmered, it surged through Aramis like the bellow of wind through the mountains, aimed at the woman standing a few feet away and cracked into one fierce, enraged demand, _"BACK OFF!"_

He didn't see Isadora's feet literally sliding backwards on the ground, didn't notice her hold shatter, her presence waver but all he did focus on was the man beside him who staggered a little.

"Athos?" he asked.

" 'm alright," the older man blinked to clear his eyes.

The taut sharpness dissolved from the shoulders that Aramis held and his friend's harsh breathing slowly turned leveled. The younger of the two wasn't sure if it was his abilities or just that he had come to read the older man easily, either way he could tell that a raging headache was pounding against those calm eyes that settled on him.

"I'm fine," Athos assured him, "wasn't prepared for it."

Aramis nodded, he had been on the receiving end of an attack like this one a few years ago. He had a clear understanding what agony his friend had gone through, it wouldn't happen again if he had any say in the matter.

Aramis squeezed the shoulders under his hand in silent support and opened his mind to pick on any new threat coming Athos' way. As his awareness stretched and sharpened he knew his eyes would have changed.

"Athos?" it was Constance's voice, "help me,"

But even as the two reached for her she stepped back with a snarl and both men watched as the terror on her face was washed out by pure anger.

"You'll pay for that!" she growled.

This time Aramis was prepared for the hit of unseen power and surprised even himself with the invisible shield he formed not just around his own mind but around Athos' presence as well. It felt like blocking a punch from a giant and took as much strength.

He heard the Weaver gasp as she pulled back and planted his feet more firmly to keep standing in the world that seemed to lurch under him. Athos steadied him and Aramis was sure that his eyes were all black when he caught the other Musketeer's gaze.

But his friend didn't even flinch and came to stand right beside him.

"Let Constance go," Athos ordered the woman before them.

"She's fighting you know," Isadora taunted them, "wouldn't do her any good, she's not even a psychic."

"She doesn't need to be," Aramis moved towards the woman, "She would get rid of you if she wanted to. Maybe it's her way to gain some freedom and recognition."

Ignoring Athos' gaze boring into the side of his head Aramis stalked even closer to the woman.

"I bet that's why she agreed to help you," he said, "With you at least she wouldn't be bogged down by the demands of the society. You must have been glad to meet Isadora right Constance?"

The woman before them shook her head, her eyes widening before the scornful glare overshadowed it again. Aramis didn't stop until he was standing within an arm's reach of the young woman.

"They told you that your brother's been killed right?" he asked and watched the muted hurt flash in the woman's gaze, "Etienne is dead Constance, I bet you'd be glad to have one less controlling person in your life."

The sound of the palm hitting across his cheek was sharp.

Aramis didn't lose a second in holding onto the presence that was Constance. It was like wedging his foot in a closing door while a raging bull tried to push it close from the other side.

"How dare you!" the girl demanded, tears streaking her face.

Aramis paid her no mind as he pushed back against Isadora, dug in his heels and tried to force her out. Distantly he could hear Athos' calm voice asking the girl to think about her brother, to focus on that love and that loss, that grief.

" _You're killing her,"_ Isadora's voice echoed in his head. It clawed at his mind and tore into his consciousness with the ferocity that left him breathless.

Isadora scrambled to reaffirm her control and Athos' hands were the only thing keeping Constance on her feet; Aramis himself was hoping for a nice tree to lean against when the distinct metallic clink of footfalls from a man in armour reached his ears.

* * *

He saw the black mass of metal emerge from beyond the trees bordering the clearing in front of the mine, heard the shuffle and zing of that dangerous bullwhip and he tackled Aramis seconds before the glinting arc curled down.

They rolled aside in a jumble of limbs and came up weapons ready, a sword pointed at the Shredder and a pistol pointed towards the Weaver. Athos wasn't really surprised with the mounting odds against them, considering the luck they had been having he was surprised that the Captain wasn't here yet.

"I officially declare my half baked plan is a failure," Aramis told him, his eyes still filled with liquid black.

"Calling it half baked would be rather presumptuous," Athos shrugged a shoulder.

He was trying not to think about his other friend who was ominously absent. Not that he had expected the Shredder to come dragging the man behind him, but it still worried him that Porthos wasn't there.

"Porthos can't be –" Aramis shook his head.

"No he can't," said Athos.

He ducked one way while Aramis went the other in order to avoid the serrated metal rope snapping towards them. With a speed that belied his heavy armour the Shredder drew closer and flicked his weapon again. It wrapped around the tree behind Athos and sprayed him with splinters as it slashed back from the tree bark.

But then thick vines were curled up the dark metal, fixing him to the spot, they wound up and around his torso even as he struggled. Within minutes the Shredder was enveloped in a mass of green, the leaves shook and fell as the man strained.

"The seal," Isadora hissed breathlessly, "now."

"Why do you need it anyway?" Aramis held up the object in question, "what's so special about it?"

"It carries the other half,"

"Of what?"

"A very dangerous weapon,"

"So we should just hand it over to you," Athos arched a brow.

"You question to give me a part of a weapon when you hold influence over the most dangerous of them all?" Isadora gave him a wild grin and pointed a shaky finger towards Aramis, "He will betray the king you serve with such diligence and he will cast doubt onto the throne you work so hard to protect."

Athos had heard of the fortune tellers, the seers that cheated the nobles out of their position and bled dry their inheritances. He had always believed himself above of such weakness but there was so much conviction in that declaration, an authority of one stating the obvious that he found himself flinching at the woman's words.

"I cannot touch the stone without any physical presence," Isadora's voice was strained, "I cannot touch anything non-psychic, even a human unless it is offered to me. But if something is handed over by a born Knot it will be mine, whatever form I take."

"We give you this seal and you will let Constance go," Aramis clarified what the woman was implying.

"And why exactly should we trust you?" Athos wanted to know.

"I can let him go," Isadora pointed to the struggling form of the Shredder, "He will tear all of you apart, even this girl you seem so fond of. Out of us, only I will survive,"

Athos considered the offer, though there wasn't much choice and the night was upon them. He would have to think quickly to handle the Shredder, subdue him like Isadora had. But he had a feeling that a simple rope wouldn't suffice, as it was the thick vines holding the armoured man were constantly growing back where they were torn against the strain.

"You want to test me?" Isadora asked.

Aramis still held on to the seal, he was waiting for Athos to come to a decision. The older Musketeer found it unnerving the amount of faith his friends had in him. He nodded for his friend to go ahead. Without hesitation Aramis tossed the seal to Isadora.

The woman deftly caught it with a wide grin. She twisted its slim grip off the round base and reached for the vaguely teardrop shaped stone set in its hollow. With a smile she examined the clear stone in the faded gray light then clasped it in glowing fingers.

The light emanating from the woman increased, flashed once before Constance dropped to the ground unconscious and the crack of the whip announced that the Shredder was free.

* * *

The fire in his leg had receded into embers that sparked to life with each step he took and soaked afresh the bandage he had devised from the strip of his own shirt. He knew that something was afoot when the Shredder had stalked off but he had never imagined finding Athos, on his back and trying to reach his sword in vain just as the Shredded tosses aside Aramis like he weighed no more that a single sack of feed.

Porthos didn't think, he simply charged, hit the cold armour around the waist and knocked the Shredder to the ground. He fell on his wounded side and the pain in his leg turned his vision white, drowning out the world.

"Porthos! Don't you dare die now you utter bloody maniac! Open your damn eyes!"

Porthos had never heard Aramis this angry before. He blinked to clear his vision even as a groan escaped him, his leg bumped into something and the sharp pain cleared any lingering daze. He found his friends were dragging him back from their enemy.

"Saved your lives," he grinned.

Athos and Aramis stopped and as one eased his back against a tree.

"Of course you did," Aramis' face softened, "Now why is there a hole in your leg?"

There was no time for questions.

"Let me up," he ground out.

The world spun as his friends hauled him to his feet and Porthos grabbed onto a low branch to keep from swaying. He held out the blood soaked metal spike he had dug out of his leg.

"This, this will probably cut through his armour."

"Probably?" Athos glanced back to him even as he kept an eye on their advancing enemy.

"It came from his armour, would have the same magical nonsense on it so it won't bounce off of him."

Athos looked from him down to Aramis who was tightening the bindings around the wound in Porthos leg. He shrugged and Athos took the small spike. He set it on the tip of his sword where it wobbled precariously. There was no time to steady it as their enemy's weapon snapped out towards them and the three of them scattered.

They worked in tandem, moving into the space of their enemy to land an ineffective blow, distract him, dodge, pull back while one of them tried to use the spike. More often than not the silly thing wouldn't stay put.

"This is getting ridiculous." Aramis gasped as he scampered to pick up the spike that had rolled away from Porthos.

Not having time to use it, he tossed it to Athos and hurried out of the range of the Shredder's metal bullwhip.

The first scratch that arched into the chest plate was a revelation; harmless though it was, it was hope for their survival yet. But even as they shared a proud grin, Porthos knew he was sagging; it was only a matter of time before his strength would give out and he wouldn't be of any help to his friends.

The Shredder now wiser was weary of the spike they were tossing between them and began evading their blows. Porthos saw him step out of reach of Athos and spin closer to him. Pain and blood loss slowed his reflexes and he blinked to clear the sweat blurring his vision. He saw the serrated metal wire curling in the air, caught the gleam in the blade at its tip and decided to face death with his eyes open.

Only someone pulled him back, he blinked and Aramis was there.

"Now would be a good time Athos," his friend's voice was strained.

Porthos didn't see the spike tipped blade that Athos pushed through the chest plate. He was too busy gaping at the reason why the Shredder hadn't moved away from the attack.

The dagger at the end of the bullwhip was deep in Aramis' shoulder; the serrated metal rope wounded onto his arm and down to his hand where he had clasped it against the Shredder's pull. As their enemy fell with a resounding thud of finality his friend still kept his fingers closed over the weapon.

Porthos swallowed hard, his throat turning dry for reasons that were far from the blood loss he was suffering from. He had seen too many people killed by this weapon and as darkness crept at the edges of his vision he stared at the back of his still standing friend. He couldn't bear the thought of losing Aramis to this.

* * *

 **TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

Aramis dug his booted toes in the soft ground and refused to give in to the swaying of the world around him. His fingers were curled around the thin metal cutting into his flesh and he tried not to think about how he could not unclench his fist even if he wanted to. He blinked and pulled in a breath.

Pain would come, it would hit him when the high of the battle ebbed but for the moment all he could think about was the man on the ground behind him.

"Porthos," he swung around and down onto his knees.

With a shaky hand he cradled the side of his friend's unnaturally warm face and frowned at the grey hue to his dark skin. Aramis brushed a thumb over the scruffy edge of his beard and tapped lightly onto the cheek.

"Porthos?"

"Aramis?" it was Athos.

With an effort he turned his head at the inquiry. Athos' eyes were wide, his jaw moved as if to form words but none came forth. Although he was never one to waste words, it was still unsettling to see the man speechless.

"Blood loss," Aramis shuffled on his knees to get closer to the wound on Porthos' leg, "And he has the beginning of a fever,"

Athos looked to him like he had grown a set of antlers and Aramis found he wouldn't be surprised any more if he actually did. A grin pulled involuntarily at his lips and Athos' face took a grim edge.

"Care to explain?"

"Your face," Aramis blurted out before he could check it.

He conceded to himself that maybe the pain was rearing its head after all.

With trembling fingers he pressed down onto the wound in his friend's leg and was relieved to feel no fresh blood seeping into the crude bandage. Leaning closer to get a better look in the darkness that had descended upon them, he prodded the older injury in his friend's side. The bandage had managed to hold tight but it was the thick layer of grime under his touch that was the concern.

Aramis was silently lamenting the absence of the medicinal supplies that he had taken to carrying with him when Porthos groaned.

"Porthos?"

He leaned back suddenly when the big man jolted up, one arm reaching out. His hand instantly fisted in Aramis' shirt.

" 'Mis!"

"Right here,"

"You –"

"Believe it or not I'm in a better condition than you,"

"I do believe you're missing the dagger currently stuck in your shoulder," Athos said.

He took a knee on Porthos' other side and with a hand on his other shoulder helped steady the man. Aramis was quietly thankful; he was having trouble staying upright himself there was no way he would be able to support his friend as well. A haze tried to creep into the corners of his vision and he shook his head to clear the cobwebs in his view, he had a feeling that he had missed something.

"Constance," he said suddenly.

Athos caught his gaze and was on his feet in a flash. Aramis tried to follow him but the ground decided to go for a spin and he found himself pulled back down.

"Sit the hell down," Porthos had not let go of him yet.

Aramis decided not to protest, especially if the earth itself was not cooperating with him. He opened his eyes with a frown, not having realized when he had closed them and found himself face to face with a very angry Porthos.

He had seen the fiery rage in his friend's gaze often enough but it had never been directed at him.

"Porthos?"

"Why?"

Aramis blinked and shook his head; he was suddenly having a very hard time of keeping his breathes even. The cutting, throbbing agony was definitely making its presence known.

"Why did you do this? I never asked this of you,"

"You didn't have to,"

"Don't," Porthos growled.

Aramis clenched his free hand in a fist and didn't even register the pain of the burns. The sticky fire on his other side was burning and drowning every other sensation, leaving a strange coldness in its place. He shivered; though out of pain or cold he could not decide.

His gaze dropped down to the wound on his friend's leg and his sluggish mind caught up with the missing pieces. It was something that only Porthos would do.

"You deliberately got yourself stabbed and then dug out that spike didn't you?"

The way his friend looked away was enough of a confirmation.

"You don't get to lecture me on self-preservation," he found himself snorting at the idea, "You gave yourself up to that insane murderer."

"I only –"

"When I returned to the garrison the Captain told me what'd happened. And I thought you were dead,"

"I was trying –"

"And then the Captain said you gave yourself up to him,"

"Aramis –"

"There was a muddy puddle of blood where Etienne died and all I could think was that's what I'll be coming across again. I thought I'll be seeing a puddle of your blood next. That I'll be too late and it would be another patch of red mud but this time it would be yours."

" 'Mis –"

"I thought I'd find you dead. I was so scared that I'll find your torn remains left in some forsaken cave,"

" 'Mis –"

"No. You bloody gave yourself up to that maniac, you stupid selfless, selfish –!"

He suddenly found himself pulled forward and the smell of leather, dust and gunpowder enveloped him. Smooth round metal studs dug into his forehead that was pressed against Porthos' shoulder and a large hand dug into his hair.

"Aw hell Kit," Porthos' voice rumbled in his chest.

Aramis found himself latching onto that. It was the one comfort to his panicking mind that in the end Porthos was here. Porthos was alive and talking and his heart was beating under Aramis' burnt hand that had come to clutch at his jerkin.

As far as Aramis was concerned, that was all that mattered.

* * *

The steady beat under his fingers was a relief and her breathing was even, almost as if she was asleep. Athos settled the girl onto her back and looked up at the sound of approaching horses. He couldn't whole heartedly question the Captain's plan for discretion when his men came bearing torches in the night, especially when the sight of his superior and fellow Musketeers was such a relief.

He went to greet the Head of his regiment as the man dismounted.

"Captain,"

"Athos what're you – do you have any idea how much trouble you're in?"

"It is unlikely to be more than what we already endure," Athos inclined his head towards his two friends who were still sitting on the ground.

It was difficult to decide who was helping who to stay upright. The Captain followed his line of sight as another Musketeer brought forth a burning torch. It shone upon the sagging weight of Porthos and the light gleamed over the polished metal, wounded around Aramis' arm, where it was not covered in blood. The handle of the bullwhip sat innocently on the young man's bent knee.

In two strides Captain Treville covered the distance between them, reached down and hauled up Aramis by the scruff of his shirt.

"What have you done?"

Athos had never seen, never heard, and never imagined their Captain so enraged. It was enough to shock him into a halt, but then the Captain gave the boy a shake.

A sound somewhere between a whimper and gasp broke through to Athos pause. It rushed in his ears in a searing red haze.

When it cleared, he found himself standing between his Captain and Aramis. He shifted under his friend's good arm and glared at the Captain. If the arm he had around his friend's back was less of a support to stand and more of an embrace, he dared anyone to point it out.

It was then he saw it, the unguarded fear on Treville's face, the man wasn't angry, no he was terrified. It must have been his own shock Athos decided that finally snapped the Captain out of his reverie. The change was swift and seamless.

"Get them on the horses," the Captain ordered him as he turned away and sent a Musketeer to have their surgeon ready for them at the garrison.

Athos felt the twitching in the muscles under his grip and cast a sideways glance at his friend who had gone several shades paler and just a touch green.

"If you throw up on my boots I will drop you," Athos said.

"It's only fair," Aramis managed a wobbly grin before he stepped away from the man, "You have to get Porthos to the surgeon, his wound's started to get infected."

"I think you could both use the surgeon's attention," Athos helped up his other swaying friend and cringed at the heat rolling off of him.

He was acutely aware of the fever sinking its claws firmly in Porthos as they rode to the garrison and his arm around the bigger man tightened. Athos looked to his side and couldn't help but admire the sheer will power with which Aramis had managed to not just mount but ride alongside with him. On the younger man's other side was their Captain and the unconscious form of Constance.

It was blatant the way with which Aramis avoided the Captain's presence by ridding as close to Athos as he possibly could, almost as if he was sheltering in his proximity. He was close enough for the occasional painful hitch in his breath to be audible to Athos, it pulled at the older man's heart and urged him to spur his horse a bit faster to reach the garrison quickly.

He was grateful to find Monsieur Ancel waiting for them in the courtyard. The surgeon hurriedly followed the Musketeers who had helped Athos ease Porthos off the horse before carrying him to the infirmary. The big man merely grunted in pain at being moved but it was the lack of strength to even lift his chin off his chest that instilled cold fear in Athos.

He hadn't the chance to help down Aramis who slipped off his saddle and staggered after the men carrying Porthos like a stubborn duckling; if the younger man wasn't tripping over his own feet Athos would have cuffed him on the head.

With a resigned sigh he instead moved towards the Captain and helped him with Constance.

When the three of them entered the infirmary it was to find a thoroughly annoyed Monsieur Ancel and an even more irritated Aramis. He was still on his feet despite the bandage that had been put to stabilize the dagger in his shoulder.

"Since I am the surgeon, I think I hold the discretion over who I should treat first."

"And since I'm not the one halfway unconscious with blood loss and infection I should be treated after the man who is,"

Athos placed the unconscious girl on the far bed, straightened to his feet and with an incline of his head ordered every other Musketeer out of the infirmary.

Captain Treville grabbed Aramis' good arm and turned him around none too gently.

"You have a dagger stuck in your shoulder," the Captain growled.

"Oh I'm sorry I didn't notice,"

"Don't start with me,"

"Or what?"

They stood glaring at each other; Athos felt his eyebrows shoot up at the sight and it wasn't only because this was the first time Aramis had outright challenged the Captain's authority. With their sharp features, narrowed eyes and face set in grim determination the two almost looked alike, which was silly since they looked widely different and yet somehow starkly similar in that moment.

"Monsieur Ancel please see to Constance," Athos' voice had the desired effect.

The two other men in the room backed up a step from each other and Athos took the opportunity to push his friend to sit down onto one of the cots. Aramis plopped down on his rear and frowned at his friend.

"I could make him attend to Porthos first," he said quietly as he pointed at his own eyes.

"I'd like to see you try," Athos challenged.

His friend glowered back with just a hint of petulance but the brown eyes dropped eventually. A smirk twitched at the corner of Athos' lip, his friend may be able to control people with his gaze but he could command them with his eyes just as good and he didn't need any absurd supernatural ability to do so.

"You should know that the more grievous wounds have to be attended to first."

"The dagger hasn't struck deep and it won't be a grievous wound until you pull it all out," Aramis looked down at his arm that he had tried to keep bent at a stable angle, "right now it's all plugged up."

"Stop playing the martyr Aramis, what you did was foolish enough,"

"I'm not playing the martyr,"

"And what do you call sacrificing yourself?"

"I call it being a brother."

Athos wasn't sure what surprised him more, the words or the sudden anger behind them. His good sense stopped him from pushing his friend back down onto the bed from which he had stood up as he drew a shaky, burned hand through his hair.

"You and Porthos, you're unbelievable you know that?" Aramis pulled at his hair that he still clutched between his fingers while his eyes darted over the room as though looking for an escape, "I was a criminal, I've killed people before I met you two and you knew that, you both did. But you risked your lives, your commission, your honour, you risked everything. You turned against the man you respect the most; you drew your weapons onto your Captain for me. Who does that? Why do that? Why do that for me?"

His demand was loud enough for Porthos to sit up with a grunt, frowning and blinking heavily. But Aramis didn't seem to notice, he jerked back when Athos tried to grab his arm in a futile attempt to steady him.

"No, do you actually think I don't know how diligently you and Porthos watch my back? How you wait up for me, look out for me, how you're right there beside me in every scrape I get into? It works only if it goes both ways Athos. I'd do anything to keep you two safe just like you do for me."

The silence rang like an echo in the infirmary, broken only by the harsh breaths from Aramis who swayed where he stood like a weed in a storm. Athos clasped onto his forearm and was relieved when his friend gripped back, his fingers twisting in his sleeve.

"I had to," Aramis almost pleaded for him to understand.

"As would have I," Athos had to confess.

He guided him back down, onto the edge of the Porthos' bed and let his hand rest on his young friend's quivering shoulder.

"Monsieur Ancel?" a voice spoke from the doorway.

"Alan! Good you here," the surgeon hurried forward to take the long bundle from the man, "Come, come, we must hurry."

The surgeon moved to the only table set against the wall and unrolled the bundle. The heavy thump and clang had the other four occupants of the room looking their way. Having not been trained in the art of healing, the long metal instruments were all the same to Athos. However it was unmistakably a kind of Saw that Monsiur Ancel was setting aside.

"Monsieur Ancel?" Captain Treville said.

"When your Musketeer told me of another attack by the Shredder I knew I had to be prepared for the worst," the surgeon said, "and I am glad that I did, a prompt action may just save the life of your Musketeer here."

"I would like an explanation," Athos' tone was anything but a request.

"Pulling out that metal rope would cause too much bleeding too fast," Monsieur Ancel said, "He would die in a matter of minutes. But if we amputate the limb and burn close the bleeding there are better chances of his survival."

Athos quite literally felt the blood drain out of his face and his grip on his friend's shoulder tightened. He looked to their Captain only to find the man step back and sit down in the nearest chair.

"No," not that surprisingly it was Porthos who spoke up.

It pulled Athos' attention back to the men he was standing beside. He felt a pull and looked down to find Aramis' death grip on the hem of his jerkin, the wide brown eyes looking up at him were too young and too weary. It nearly made him catch his breath and Athos had to look away. He was met by Porthos' feverish gaze as the big man shook his head and looked to Athos, asking him, trusting him to find a way, a better way.

"We can't Athos, we can't let him."

Damn the faith these men had in him!

Athos drew a hand over his face, racking his brain for a plan that would save his friend and preferably save the whole of his friend. But he was desperately aware that it was not humanly possible, even with the arm cut off and the wound burned close Aramis had slim chance of living through this. There was only so much medicine could do.

And then it struck him.

"How is Constance Monsieur Ancel?"

"She appears to be in deep sleep although otherwise she is well,"

"Good, see to Porthos," Athos said.

"But –"

"Alan you may take your instruments, they will not be required."

"I don't take orders from you," the man crossed his arms.

Never of a nature to entertain swollen egos Athos was especially pressed for time at the moment and saw no reason to cater to this man. His fingers curled around the hilt of his ever present rapier and he turned to Alan with all the arrogance of his upbringing touched with the threat of a soldier.

"There will be no severed limbs here tonight," he said, "but if you so insist I can make an exception for whichever of your appendage you have the least use for."

Alan's eyes widened, he backtracked from the doorway and out into the yard, hands raised in a placating gesture. Not sparing him a glance Athos helped Aramis onto the other bed as Monsieur Ancel began working on Porthos' wound.

"Captain a word,"

Captain Treville wasted no time into following him to the corner of the infirmary. The man looked shaken, much more than Athos had expected him to be.

"You said you had your contacts within both of those sides," Athos said.

"What has that got to do with anything right now?"

"This magical nonsense must have something to offer in terms of healing," Athos reasoned, "you have to find such a way before it's too late."

The Captain's eyes widened at his suggestion, Athos was aware of the incredulity of it, he was after all the one who had had the most difficulty in accepting all this. But it was like Aramis had said; there was nothing that he wouldn't do for the two men who wouldn't waste a second to return the favor, it was called being a brother.

"I'll find a solution," the Captain said.

Athos watched him leave the infirmary and hoped he hadn't just sealed his friend's death this night.

* * *

 **TBC**

* * *

 **THANK YOU everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. You are amazing to have come with me this far. Those of you who leave me reviews, I can never thank you enough. Because it is a truly wonderful feeling to hear back from you all, the words you share are dotted upon.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A HUGE THANK YOU to all who are still with this story and my apologies for the horrific delay, I can still not say that I will update frequently but I can assure you I am not abandoning this story.**

* * *

To say that the Red Guard outside the Cardinal's chambers was surprised would be an understatement. The man could not tear his gaze away from the Captain of the Musketeers as he banged away on the high ornate doors even after the guard had told him that the Cardinal had retired for the evening.

"His Eminence would be displeased with this uproar, can't it wait till the morning Captain?" asked the man.

"If it could I wouldn't be here would I?" Captain Treville snapped and with a shove he pushed open the door and strode across the threshold with the Red Guards at his heels.

Treville had been surprised by Athos' suggestion but he had never been more proud of the younger man either. That one had a sound head on his shoulders that didn't lose its wits in the face of apparently impossible problems. He had pointed the Captain towards the chance of a solution and Treville had made his way to the only available person to contact that he had with the other world he was a part of. If that meant he had to drag the Cardinal from his bed, well the Captain of the Musketeers was nothing if not persistent.

"What is the meaning of this? Have you finally lost that peanut you call a brain Treville?" The Cardinal emerged from his bed chamber wrapping a cloak over his silken sleeping clothes.

"I need your opinion on an urgent matter,"

"I think I can optimistically assume it would be so," Cardinal Richelieu jerked his head towards the Red Guards and sent them out of the room, "what has you raiding my chambers at this hour Captain?"

"There are watchmen and there are psychics but are their healers? Healers with something a little extra?" Treville asked.

He didn't like the sour frown that etched on the Cardinal's narrow face. The man stood with his hands clasped behind his back and regarded the Captain in apparent disapproval.

"You don't look to be in need of a healer, of any kind." He said.

"It's not for me,"

"Oh? And who is the recipient of such urgent care for whom you are willing to risk the existence of…." Cardinal Richelieu flicked his wrist in an encompassing gesture, "everything else."

He had been anticipating it; still he was not prepared for the wave of fear that broke onto him anew at the thought of the injured young man he had left behind. Straightening his back, Treville raised his chin in obvious defiance.

"I cannot tell,"

"Well, I can't disclose information as sensitive as this for just anyone. You can't expect me to take your word for it that whoever this person is will be trustworthy."

"I'm afraid that's what you'll have to do," Treville shrugged a shoulder, "I'm guessing there are healers of the kind I need."

"There are scholars, people of spells and potions, if one was inclined to believe in such things. They are on neither side and work on commission." The Cardinal said, "I could point you to one who is an associate of an associate so that it wouldn't be a problem in the eye of the Brotherhood."

"But…?" Treville prompted.

He was well versed by now in the politics of the court and those of the Brotherhood, everything had a price if you could afford it. It was clear in the Cardinal's eyes as they glinted in the candle light like a predator in the bush.

"If I help you now, no questions asked and keep it a secret, it is only fair that you should return the favor;" Cardinal Richelieu smiled.

Stamping down on the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose Treville nodded, if this was what it would take for him to save his son then he would do it, there was no price too much if it meant he could save his boy's life.

"What is it then?" he asked.

"I don't know," the Cardinal shrugged as he moved to his desk and scribbled on a piece of paper before extending it to Treville, "that is to say, I don't know yet."

Treville reached for the information but Richelieu wasn't done, he still held the piece of paper in his fingers from the other end.

"Somewhere in the future I might need such a favor from you Captain, a no questions asked secret between us. I will call on it then," the Cardinal relinquished his hold on the paper and turned on his heels, "Now if you would be so kind as not to bang the door on your way out Captain."

Treville watched him until the man had closed the door to his sleeping chamber behind him. The Captain had a feeling like a crawling on his skin, a feeling that he had just signed a deal that would see him at loss in the end. But he hadn't the time to dwell on it.

Reading the elegant scrawl of the Cardinal, Captain Treville left the palace. He navigated the darkened streets of Paris and soon found himself at the address the Cardinal had written for him. Stepping out of the way of the drunks that stumbled out onto the cobblestone paved steps, Treville frowned at the tavern he had been sent to.

Inside, the jovial ruckus bounced off of the damp stone walls as people flitted like shadows in the glow of the candles. The tavern was packed, with the scent of food and wine and sweat. Captain Treville was starting to doubt the Cardinal's words as something crunched underfoot and he spied something furry scuttle across his path in haste.

"Should I find you a spot Monsieur?" a middle aged woman asked as she wiped her hands on a stained apron, "there's a rumor that the Shredder is done for so the first drink is on the house."

"No thank you,"

"Are you sure?" the woman grinned, "not joining the celebration then?"

"I'm looking for Mademoiselle Bessette," Treville bit out as politely as he could; time was slipping fast and he wasn't sure if he would even find his boy alive at his return.

"Adele! Adele! There's someone here asking for you," the woman yelled over her shoulder.

Treville scanned the throng of men near the bar until he spotted a young woman with flame red hair in wild curls making her way towards them. She placed tankards of ale on the tables, collecting the empty ones as she went by and deftly balanced her laden trey to make room for empty bowls in the crook of her elbow. Making a stop at the nearest table she switched the tankards and turned to the Captain with an arched brow.

"And what can I do for you?" she asked.

"I was told you would help a brother in need," Treville rattled off the words the Cardinal had noted down for him.

The apple green eyes widened imperceptibly but the young woman merely smiled. She tipped her head towards the door, silently asking him to wait outside. It aggravated his already frayed nerves but the Captain did as he was told.

His wait didn't last long and he was just considering going back in when Mademoiselle Bessette came through the door wearing a drab brown cloak.

"I would need to see some proof," she said.

The Captain produced the wooden seal Marcus had given him a year ago. The young woman raised it to the light spilling from the tavern doorway and examined it carefully.

"I'm Captain Treville of the King's Musketeers, Cardinal Richelieu sent me,"

"Alright Captain Treville," she handed back the seal, "why do you need a scholar?"

"Is there a way, I mean is there something that you can do for someone in need of healing?"

"You'll have to explain the ailment Captain," she shrugged, "some have a cure, others don't and even when there is a cure the time it takes to brew it is too long for the ailing to survive."

Treville told her about Aramis' injury, his heart sinking as the young woman before him frowned at his words. She kept quite even after he had finished talking and closed her eyes as though in deep thought. At length she looked at the Captain and nodded.

"There might be something that could work," she said, "You're lucky I store what I brew otherwise your man would have long died before I had made that potion."

"Potion?"

"Yes, now go back to your garrison Captain I'll see you there in a few minutes," with that she turned away and hurried off into the shadows of the street.

Treville contemplated if he should wait for her but deciding against it he made his way back to the garrison. As he neared the arched gateway his quick steps faltered, his boots dragged against the ground under the weight of what he would find in the infirmary.

With a fortifying breath, the Captain crossed the yard and entered the room where he had left his men. He stopped short when he found the room empty, save for two men at the far end. Only Porthos' bed was occupied, the big man was in the grips of fever and kneeling beside his bed was Aramis, wiping his friend's face with a wet rag in his trembling hand.

With a shake of his head Treville came to stand behind him, it was a testament of how far gone the young man was that he didn't even register the Captain's presence and started when Treville rested a hand on Aramis' shoulder that did not have a dagger sticking out of it.

The shivers that Treville could feel even through the sweat soaked shirt under his hand made his heart beat faster in fear for the man before him.

"It's infected Cap'n, the wound in 'is leg." Aramis blinked and hunched just a bit into himself, "P'thos has a fever."

"I see. Why don't you sit on the bed beside his and I'll take care of him," Treville tried to catch the dark brown eyes that were scanning the room.

It seemed like Aramis was still unsure of his standing with him in the light of their recent interactions. If only he could tell the young man how worried, how scared he was for him. But Treville shook his head at his thought; it would do him no good dwelling on what could have been.

"Where's Athos?"Aramis asked.

"I told you I was going to show Constance to my room," Athos' tone though exasperated was still gentle.

"P'thos has a fever," Aramis announced.

Athos nodded grimly and as he moved closer to them, Treville stepped aside. It was surprising for the Captain to feel how much it hurt him to see his son looking up with trust and relief not at him but at the man beside him. It was a bitter taste in his mouth to know that he had unknowingly threw away a chance at this.

"You need to get back in the bed Kit," Athos grabbed the good arm of his friend and heaved him to his feet.

"Not a kit," Aramis swayed.

Athos deposited him on the bed and the Captain's heart clenched at the grimace on the ashen face as Aramis toed off his boots to lean back against the wall; his eyes closed and jaw clenched against the pain that had been taking a toll on him. The lean frame shivered slightly and Treville wished he could step forward and draw the blanket up over the younger man's legs.

Instead it was Athos who did it and earned a soft, if a bit exasperated smile for his efforts.

As Athos turned to rest a hand on Porthos' forehead, Treville found his eyes drawn to the dark wet spots Aramis had left in his wake; he could not look away from the bloodstains his son had left on the floor where he had knelt by his friend's bed. He had to wonder how much blood he had lost already and how much more would he lose.

"The Mademoiselle is looking for you Captain," Serge ushered in Adele Bassette.

"Yes Mademoiselle Bassette –"

"Adele would do Captain,"

"Right Adele, this is Aramis and he's –"

"In quite a bind aren't you," Adele smiled down at the man.

"Athos?" Aramis' head rolled against the wall and towards his friend who stood on the other side of the bed.

"Yes?"

"I think I'm delirious from blood loss mon frère," a ghost of a smile appeared on his pale face, "I'm seeing starlight and she's a woman."

"I'm sure you'll change your opinion by the time we are done Monsieur," Adele rolled her eyes and raised a vial for the Captain to see, "I'll need hot water, brought to a boil."

"I'll get some," Serge spoke up from behind her and left before anyone could object.

"Captain?" Athos raised a brow.

There were a number of questions in that one quirk of an eyebrow. Who was this woman? Could she help them? Could she be trusted? Is she a threat?

"She's our only chance," Treville told his lieutenant.

Athos nodded although the distrust was clear in the set of his jaw and in the rigidness of his shoulders that did not ease. Treville wasn't looking at a soldier anymore, this was a leader, a man who knew the value of trust his men had in him and who would do right by them any way he could. But that was not all, Treville saw the way Athos fingers brushed the damp curls off of Porthos' feverish forehead before he withdrew his hand and laid it on the back of Aramis' neck in a gentle grounding pressure. It was the way the other two leaned into his touch that had Treville looking away; it was brotherhood in a way that made him catch his breath in pride and fear.

Everything that he had witnessed leading up to here flashed in the Captain's mind, all the risks these three had taken for each other over the past year counted up in his head and Treville knew in that moment that should this not work, he would be losing all three of his men one way or another.

He started when Serge brought in a large bowl of simmering water and stared mesmerized as the dark blue steam curled up from it when Adele poured the contents of the vial in the water.

"What does it do?" Aramis asked, his wide eyes still tracking the dark blue whiffs in the air.

"It heals the wound rapidly, closes it up and doesn't even leave a scar most of the times," Adele replied as she grasped the hot bowl with a cloth.

"Does it heal an infected wound?"

"Yes,"

"Good, then Porthos first," Aramis said.

"Captain?" Adele looked to him.

It wasn't worth wasting his breath on an argument that he had lost even in his own mind. It was obvious to Treville that he would either save all of them or none of them would survive long. He nodded and motioned for Adele to go ahead.

"This is all the brew I had of this potion Captain," she reminded him and nodded towards Aramis, "it may not be enough given the extent of his wound."

"P'thos fr'st." Aramis ground out.

Adele nodded and made her way over to the big man with the bowlful of simmering liquid. She looked to Treville and Athos in turn.

"You will need to hold him down, the potion can be painful," she said.

Treville looked to the man who was out of it completely. He had a hard time imagining that Porthos would feel anything in the depths of his unconsciousness but he nodded to Athos and grasped the big man's legs. Athos braced his friend with an arm over his chest, taking care to avoid the re-bandaged wound in the big man's side that seemed to have miraculously escaped infection.

"Go ahead Adele," Treville murmured.

The woman tipped the bowl a little and second the trickling liquid touched the wound it hissed and steamed. A rough scream escaped Porthos as he struggled to get away from the pain, withering and thrashing as the wound burned. Treville had to adjust his grip and by the time the wound sizzled close Porthos was awake and breathing harshly. His chest rose and fell rapidly under Athos' arm.

The man had slid to his knees by the bed and it seemed that his hold had shifted into a one armed embrace. Athos' head was bent and resting on the big man's chest and rose when his friend clumsily patted him on the back.

"What the hell was that Athos?" Porthos gasped and tried to curl onto his side, "What happened?"

"You've healed my friend," Athos' hand shifted until it rested on the side of his friend's neck as his lips twitched in a smile. He turned and nodded to Aramis, "he's healed, there's no fever."

"Did ya cauterize it?" Porthos asked as his hand hovered where his wound had been and choked back a groan, "that hurt more than sticking hot metal to the wound," he grit his teeth.

"If it cools down it will lose its potency," Adele spoke up before any of them could get in a word. She moved around Aramis' bed to his injured side, "we need to get this over with," she said.

"Someone will have to pull it out," Athos said, "Captain?"

With a nod far surer than he was feeling Treville took up position on the other side of Aramis. He tried not to dwell on what he was about to do and focused instead on keeping his hands steady where they shook by his side. As he clenched his fist to keep the trembling at bay he saw the fear flash in his son's eyes.

Aramis eased himself to lying onto his back on the bed and licked his dry lips before glancing towards first Porthos and then Athos.

"You'll need to cut where the metal rope joins the dagger," he said, "the dagger wound can be sewed close after."

"Aramis," Treville began but the younger man shook his head.

"That mixture isn't much and the dagger is not buried that deep."

"Alright," Athos nodded and taking out his main gauche he leaned over his friend, "brace yourself," he said.

Aramis reached blindly with his other hand and it caught Porthos' in the space between the two cots. He turned his dark eyes to Athos and gave his friend a nod. Although Athos' blade was sharp and the deed over in a flash, it still didn't prevent the pained gasp that escaped Aramis.

Treville wished that he could sooth the lines of pain that etched at the corners of his son's eyes. But it was Porthos' grip on his hand and Athos' press on his heaving chest that helped Aramis ride out the pain of having his wound jostled.

"Are you ready for this?" Athos asked.

Aramis nodded. He looked weary of it all but as Treville grasped the handle of the bullwhip the younger man tensed. His eyes darted around like those of a spooked colt when Serge held down his legs. The Captain knew without seeing that his son would have tightened his hold on Porthos' hand and it was purely instinctual that his own grip clenched tight around the blood slick handle; he would do this quick and it will all be over.

Soon it will be over and his son would be healed.

"Look at me Aramis," Athos' soft order cut through Treville's musing.

He found Athos leaning over the younger man as he pinned down both his shoulders, but it was his face, hovering over Aramis' that spoke volumes of the concern the man held for his friend. Athos did not look away from the man who was looking anywhere but at those near him.

"Look at me Aramis," Athos repeated, "eyes on me. That's right, I'm here so is Porthos. Do you trust us?"

The nod was sharp and immediate, no hesitation at all.

"We'll get you through this alright?"

Another nod, a bit subdued this time.

"Do it Captain,"

And Treville pulled.

Blood arched out in a burst in the wake of metal, it splashed on the floor, sprayed on the wall and soaked through edge of the bedding. Adele poured the hot liquid over the long curling wound and it was then that Aramis let go a chocked scream.

His head rolled on the pillow and he groaned deep in his throat when there was no escape from the pain. Tears rolled down from the corner of his eyes and mixed with the cold sweat breaking over him. His back arched off the bed in a muted gasp before he slumped back on the bed, lying still.

As Adele moved back with the empty bowl Treville let go a ragged breath. He had no idea when he had held it but it felt like he hadn't breathed in years. He let go of the bullwhip in his hand and its soft clink against the floor echoed in the quite infirmary.

Staggering back, the back of his knees bumped into the edge of a bed and Treville sank down to sit before his shaking legs buckled under him. The coppery smell of blood hung heavy in the air. His son's blood painted the wall and pooled on the floor.

His son's blood, his blood.

Treville brought up his shaky hand to press its back against his mouth in an effort to keep at bay the sob that threatened to break free.

"I'll clean up in here," Serge moved first.

It broke the silence and blinking away the moisture in his eyes Treville looked to Adele.

"He is healed?"

"The wound is," Adele said, "It's the blood loss you'll have to deal with, for both of them."

"Thank you, how can I –"

"Put in a good word for me with our common friend," Adele told him, "If you will excuse me Captain, I have a job I must return to."

Treville watched her leave with a surge of gratitude and pushed to his feet as Athos stumbled off of Aramis' bed. He rushed past the Captain and only made it out of the infirmary before he lost the contents of his stomach.

Porthos made to follow him but Treville pushed the man back down. He took the limp hand he still grasped and patted the man on the shoulder.

"I'll see to him," he said, "try and get some rest."

"They'll be fine?"

Treville found himself brushing the dark curls out of the young Musketeer's eyes.

"All of you will be fine," he said.

It warmed him to see Porthos trust his words as the big man succumbed to exhaustion with a hint of a smile on his face.

Treville turned and gently placed Aramis' burnt hand back on the bed. He could not let his eyes stray to the face of his son, not yet. It still took an effort to relinquish his soft hold on the younger man's wrist and pull his hand away.

He looked up as Serge clambered in with mops and buckets. Treville pulled together his derailing focus and walked out into the night in search of his lieutenant. He found Athos a few steps out into the yard where the man was straightening from his hunched position. Grasping his elbow to steady him, Treville began leading Athos back to the infirmary.

"To bed with you," Treville murmured.

"Cap'n?" Athos cleared his throat, "I'm fine."

"I'm not asking Athos," he made the man sit on the empty bed beside Aramis'.

Athos eyes drew to the still figure on the bed before him and lingered there.

"The dagger –"

"I'll take care of it," Treville pressed a glass of water into Athos' hand.

His lieutenant stared down at it in abject confusion. At length he sipped the water before setting it on the table between the beds. As Serge cleaned up the blood from the floor Athos closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands against them.

"I could do with something stronger then water," he muttered.

Treville was ready with a small cup of wine for him.

Athos smiled at his forethought and raising the small cup in a silent salute he drained it in one go.

"Constance woke up with a bad head ache," he said, "I gave her my room for the night."

"That's a good plan since you'll be staying here anyway," Treville nodded and took the cup from Athos as the younger man's shoulders sagged abruptly, "why don't you lie down for a while?" the Captain said.

Athos looked at him from under the fringes of his hair that had fallen on his face; there was accusation in his eyes that seemed to be having trouble staying open. He frowned at the Captain as the older man divested him of his weapons, belt and jerkin.

"You drugged me," he said.

"I did," Treville nodded, he wanted his men to rest and he knew Athos wouldn't go down easily if asked to sleep through the night. The Captain wasn't above giving him a little nudge if it was needed.

Athos stared up at the ceiling as Treville tilted him to the side and heaved up his legs. He pulled the covers over the man who was yet struggling with the sleeping draught.

"Y' two are too alike y' know," Athos said, "y' an' 'Mis. Too alike, nev'uh noticed 'fore."

Treville stilled.

He waited with a baited breath for the man to continue but Athos had given in to sleep. It shook him to his core, this remark that he hoped was a passing observation. As much as he dreamed of it in his private hours, Treville couldn't imagine his secret coming to light. With an audible exhale the Captain pulled the covers over Athos and smoothed it down. He smiled when the usually stoic man snuffled and dug deeper into his pillow.

Treville turned to his son and pulled up a chair nearer to his bed. His son, his boy, the one that was entirely his by all rights and yet he never was.

The older man forced his hands steady and for his eyes to not wander as he set to work on the dagger wound. He knew if he for a second let his gaze travel to the younger man's face, he would not be able to do what was demanded of him. It took all of his soldier's discipline to keep on the task until he had put in the last stitch and cut off the thread. Wiping his hands clean on a wet rag, Treville sat back.

His gaze travelled up to the face that was far too pale, the olive skin that Aramis had inherited from his mother had taken on a pasty hue and the dark smudges under his eyes were enhanced by the thick eyelashes fanning over them. The father hoped to see the dark eyes behind the closed lids, warm and full of mischief by turn, just as the boy had been on their first encounter.

But so much had changed since then; he had promised Felipa that he would keep their son safe for that one night she had allowed them together. And that night had changed everything.

"If you hold 'im up I could change the bedding," Serge spoke up.

Treville looked up at the man he didn't know was in the room. He stood up to do as he was asked but faltered with his knee pressed onto the bed and hands reaching for the unconscious young man. It was silly, the Captain decided, this sudden fear that his touch would hurt Aramis, that he wouldn't know how to hold him.

Reaching forward Treville gathered the younger man in his arms, with one around his shoulders and the other around his waist so that he was stood cradling the upper half of his son. Aramis' head rested against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His breaths puffed warm against Treville's neck and something hard and prickly rose in the Captain's throat. In the short time that he had been afforded with the younger man he had never had the privilege to be this close to him. This was, Treville realized with a wet sheen over his vision, the first time he had ever held his son.

He had been surprised by the force of protectiveness that had surged in him upon finding out about his son the first time but it was nothing compared to the sheer love that filled him in that moment.

A love that ached in his breath, brimmed in his eyes and threatened to burst out of his skin.

"He's good f'r you Captain," Serge said as he worked.

Treville cleared his throat and eyed the old cook.

"I'm just sayin' its good t' see 'im ruffling y'r feathers," Serge grinned, "the rest of 'em are always in line with you."

"He's born with a tune of his own," Treville remembered Felipa's words from years ago.

" 'an I say it's a good thing," Serge nodded as he finished changing the sheets then looked to the Captain with a teasing smile, "I remember 'nother young man of that sort, left his regiment to follow his love 'cross the border if my memory serves right."

"He's nothing like me, I was never this reckless," Treville shook his head.

"You were just as stubborn, though not so much into mischief," Serge shrugged, "I see what I see Captain, now should I bring your food here or the office?"

Not feeling particularly hungry Treville told the old cook that he would come find him when he did. It was only after Serge left that the Captain realized he was still holding on to his son. He was eternally grateful that the other man hadn't called him on it.

Treville allowed himself to pull the younger man closer and held him just a little tighter, this was his first and likely only chance to embrace his son. In a moment of indulgent weakness, the Captain let himself savor it.

At length he eased the younger man back on the bed, his fingers raking through his son's hair before he gently settled Aramis' head on the pillow. Treville pulled up the covers, relishing in the simple act of tucking the sheet under his son's arms and smoothing it over his chest.

Carefully he picked up the hand that was dotted with red spots and burst blisters. Treville spotted the can of aloe in the shelf and retrieving it, he sat back in the chair before applying the soothing ointment to the burns.

He was placing the hand back on the bed when he noticed Aramis' eyes open. They were glazed over and tracked his movement sluggishly from under half open eye lids.

"Aramis?" Treville ventured softly, "Are you awake."

The chapped, colourless lips parted but all that he managed was a rough croak.

"Wait," Treville got to his feet and poured some water from the jug in a small bowl.

He grasped the younger man by the back of his neck and steadying his head, he brought the bowl of water to his lips. Aramis drank greedily and fearing that he would choke Treville pulled the water back. A soft whine escaped the younger man and Treville found himself squeezing the back of his neck in reassurance.

"Try taking it slowly," he said, "you'll only cough it back up if you drink at that speed."

Aramis nodded and drank his fill much more sedately. It was a slow process because his son drank like he hadn't had a drop in years but the Captain enjoyed each moment of it, he hadn't realized how much he wanted to simply be able to touch his son.

"Thank you Captain," it was almost a whisper.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, Treville helped his son back onto the pillow and sat down in the chair. It took all his will power to not reach out and smooth out the furrow that appeared on his boy's forehead.

"Do you think he knew?" Aramis asked him.

"Who?"

"My father," Aramis regarded him with a shine of tears over his hazy eyes, "do you think he knew who – what I am – do you think he was scared of me – so he left before I was born and then didn't come back?"

"No!" it came out sharper then he had intended.

Treville clutched Aramis' arm above his burnt hand, it cut him deep to hear the words from his son but what pierced his heart was the defeated tone and the way the younger man refused to meet his eyes. Aramis lay staring at the roof through half open eyes.

"You said it yourself Aramis, back when we first met and I asked you about him, don't you remember that?" he didn't wait for a reply, "you said that he couldn't come back, you told me that."

Those dark eyes bright with emotions and softened with weariness beyond his years settled back on Treville.

"I only assumed Captain," he said, "I didn't know; I don't know."

Treville cupped the side of his face and shook his head as he searched for words. He had kept quiet about their relationship first because Aramis being a born knot could be revealed with this secret but that was now in the open. Treville could tell the younger man about their relationship which could remain between them alone without anyone else the wiser.

But he wondered now how to explain to this young man that the father he had been thinking about all his life hadn't even known about him to begin with. And then how would he look Aramis in the eyes and explain why he didn't speak up when they first met and then didn't stop him when he slipped away from his life again. How was he to voice his reason to not speak up when his son joined his regiment, the need to appear unbiased looking flimsy to even himself in retrospect.

His thoughts broke off when he felt pressure on his hand. Aramis had leaned into his touch and fallen back to sleep; another chance had slid out of his hand and Treville didn't even notice the wetness rolling down his face. His thumb traced his son's cheekbone as his eyes roved over the features that even in the softness of sleep were sharp; so like his own that Treville had to bite back a sob.

He sat back down in the chair with his head in his hand as his other hand rested on Aramis' heart. The slow steady beat against his touch a reassurance that at least for the moment his son was alive and with him.

* * *

 **I'm still not sure about this chapter...**

 **TBC**


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a pink dawn, the sun itself was sore when it rose that morning he mused. His stiff back thanked him as he pulled his horse to a stop. The animal shook its head and scratched the ground with his hooves as if it remembered what it had witnessed in this clearing the previous night.

The cave beyond was silent and his eyes inadvertently sough the dark stain where the Shredder had bled out. Someone had taken away the body and Athos wondered if the Captain had had the presence of mind to order the transfer to the morgue. Last night he had seen the Captain shaken like never before in the short span of time he had known him.

A soft thump had him glancing back towards the young woman who had dismounted from her horse. Suddenly glad that the corpse had been taken away Athos too slid out of his saddle and led their horses to a nearby tree. As he looped the reins around the tree bark he studied the girl from under the tipped brim of his hat.

He had no idea what she sought to gain from revisiting this place but Athos hadn't had it in him to refuse when she had asked to accompany him. He had been too surprised to see her roam into the stables in the pale light of pre-dawn, bloodshot eyes searching for answers she did not voice.

"What happened here Athos?"

Until now that is.

"How did I even get here?" Constance wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed her sides, "it's like I was there but I wasn't. I remember seeing; hearing, talking but I couldn't do anything. Do you know how it feels to have your body move without your command? To have it saying words against your order?"

Athos shook his head but Constance wasn't watching him. Her eyes roved over the trees, flitting from one to the other as though expecting her nightmare to step out from behind one of them.

"She – it – brought me here," Constance said before she turned to face Athos, "why?" she asked.

He was not the expert on this subject, if anything he was still learning about his own place in this set up.

"I don't know," Athos said, "but she said you agreed to help her,"

"NOT FOR THIS!" she screeched suddenly, "I didn't agree for this! She told me her son was in trouble – I wanted to help her but not for this! Not for her to trap me in my own body!"

Raising his hands in placating gesture he nodded.

"I believe you," he said, "she took advantage of your kindness because she's a vile creature working towards her own ends that I don't think anyone of us understands yet."

Unbidden in his mind flashed Isadora's angry eyes and her smug grin, _"You question to give me a part of a weapon when you hold influence over the most dangerous of them all?" Isadora gave him a wild grin and pointed a shaky finger towards Aramis, "He will betray the king you serve with such diligence and he will cast doubt onto the throne you work so hard to protect."_ She had been so sure of it.

Athos wondered if Aramis was a weapon then did it make him and Porthos one as well, because they were tethered to him, whatever that implied. He raised his hat with one hand and drew his hand through his hair with another, he needed a drink.

"I don't want to be a part of it," Constance shook her head.

Her words pinned his inhale in his chest.

Because suddenly Athos was acutely aware that they might not have a choice in this at all. He didn't ask to be a part of this and as far as he knew neither did Porthos, nor did Aramis asked to be born a knot. And yet they were linked together and dragged into this insanity, like a wave under the surface pulling them out to the sea.

Athos suppressed a shiver and forced himself to move, scanning the ground for what he had come looking. If his luck held he would be able to find the seal of Comte d'Fleurhelm that the Weaver had tossed in this place.

"Aramis is like her isn't he?"

"No," Athos snapped as he stopped his search and turned around to face her, "he is nothing like her."

"He was able to get across her to reach me,"

"He saved you; he would never put you through what she did,"

"But he can," she shrugged her shoulders, "if he wanted to do,"

He remembered all that the Captain had shared with them, how psychics as powerful as Aramis could compel others to their biding; but then a fierce need to defend burned in his heart, the desire to protect so strong that he had only felt it towards Thomas before. Athos clenched his fists at his sides and fixed the already shaken girl with a glare.

"But Aramis will never choose to do that," he said, "that's what makes him different from her,"

Surprise etched on her face as her eyes widened at the force behind his words. Athos couldn't believe that he was standing up for his friend in this. He was still not comfortable with the thought of magic and knots and tethers, the idea of being one of those, the implication that he actually bore some magic left his skin crawling. But he would never back down from defending Aramis and Porthos, they were brothers.

The acceptance left his breath staggering.

Beyond skin, status and blood – they were brothers.

It was as simple as that.

As his eyes focused back on Constance he found her expression had softened and realized something must have shown on his face.

"I see what Etienne meant when he wrote about you three in his letters," she said.

Athos nodded and turned on his heels. He did not want to know what stories her deceased brother had shared about them and a tiny part of him was afraid that the girl might start crying if he prodded her. He was thankful that she had not sought comfort from him again since the first time he had informed her of Etienne's death and latching onto that optimism he looked for the seal of the Comte.

He found it near the edge of the grove where he remembered Isadora to be standing last night.

When he turned around it was to find Constance wiping her face with her sleeve. Although tears still leaked out of the corners of her eyes and past the reddened nose the girl had composed herself. She looked around at the clearing and the thicket before nodding to herself.

Letting her gather her bearing in peace Athos pocketed the seal and readied the horses.

"I'll be sending a letter to my aunt from the inn," Constance said as she got back in the saddle, "but I don't think she'll make it in time for Etienne's funeral."

"Do you wish to wait for her?"

Constance shook her head, "I love her I do – but Etienne and I – it was us against the world before he left for Paris and I –I'd like to see him put to rest with no trouble."

Athos nodded.

He cast one last glance at the place where he had stood by his friend when the man was using his abilities and for the first time he hadn't flinched away from Aramis for that. With the knowledge that his view had expanded and the feeling of quiet dread about what this new horizon would bring Athos turned away.

* * *

The yard was bustling. Musketeers practiced their battle skills in laughing pairs as the zing of rapiers and the occasional retort of pistols from the target range echoed in the air. He sat at the table, polishing off the hearty breakfast Serge had spread in a fit of unexpected vigour. But then Porthos mused that it wasn't unexpected, a shadow had been lifted off their city and the air itself was lighter, cleaner.

He inhaled deeply and grinned at Jacques when the stable boy hurried by with an armload of tack, nearly tripping over his own feet. Taking a bite out of an apple Porthos rubbed his leg where the wound should be, the wound that should have killed him or at least would have left him battling an infection.

"Is that still hurting you?"

He looked up at the voice and a soft smile lit on his face.

"Captain!" he straightened a bit, "not all. Though I know it should have,"

Captain Treville nodded even as his gaze travelled over the Musketeer for any sign of distress he might have missed. Porthos felt warmth curl in his belly at the veiled concern and poured the man a drink. The Captain accepted the glass as he handed the reins of his horse to Jacques.

Porthos didn't miss the way Treville's eyes flicked to the doorway of the infirmary and lingered there.

"He's still out, but no sign of fever," he said, "looked to be sleeping peacefully. Considering everything he's better than fine Captain,"

"I know he is, or you won't be out here,"

Ducking his head Porthos could not keep the smile from his face. It was true that his friend's well being had been his first concern upon waking up. He had broken from his slumber at the sound of Athos shuffling to Aramis' cot to make sure the wound in the man's shoulder wasn't infected.

"And Athos wouldn't have left if he wasn't sure of Aramis' health,"

"Where did he go?"

"Something about a seal" Porthos grinned as he remembered the bleary encounter from earlier that morning, "and that no he didn't-need-to-have-someone-watching-his-back-for-this-so-sit-back-down Porthos! He was insistent and irked over being drugged?" he arched a brow.

The Captain gave him a bland look.

"He needed it,"

Porthos chuckled.

The Captain downed his drink and set the glass back onto the table. He rubbed the back of his neck and Porthos didn't miss the pinched corners of Treville's eyes nor the shadows under them. He didn't need to ask to know that the man hadn't slept through the night.

"Trouble at the palace Captain?" he asked.

Treville rested an arm on the railing of the staircase leading to his office and regarded the musketeers practicing swordsmanship on the other side of the yard; a corner of his lips quirked up as he glanced sideways towards Porthos.

"If Athos knows where the Comte's seal is then I don't think there'll be any trouble at all," he said.

"He seemed intent to retrieve it," Porthos nodded, "he'll be back with it I'm sure."

The Captain nodded as he surveyed his garrison.

The Shredder had dared to step into their sanctuary; he had stained their home with the blood of their own. Porthos hated the Shredder for the lives he had taken but then he found himself wondering of the lives that man had left behind. He had had a wife and little ones, a family already stuck in poverty.

His recent breakfast roiled in his stomach at the thought of the way the man had been used and his wife had said that he hadn't even been paid for it yet. Porthos knew that feeling, he knew what it was like to do the dirty work for the higher ups and then be cheated out of your earnings.

He decided that he would help the widow, see to it that she found her way back to her feet.

"That watchman who hired him, do you know him Captain?" he asked.

Captain Treville whipped his head around to glare at him, eyes narrowed in suppressed rage but there was fear lurking behind that too, Porthos could tell. It was obvious in the way the Captain swept a glance around them, as though expecting to find someone listening in.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked.

"Whoever hired 'im didn't pay," Porthos said, "he did it for money for his family and now they're worse off with his death."

To his surprise the older man fixed him with a steely gaze.

"You are nothing like him Porthos, you've may have faced the same hardships as him but you had courage enough to make the right choices. You never strayed from your principles,"

The fierce conviction behind those words nearly knocked him over where he sat, the Captain had seen where his thoughts were going and Porthos mused he shouldn't be surprised since that man had known where Porthos had been before he joined the Musketeers.

It was oddly breathtaking to hear the man speak out loud what Porthos had always tried to do, of the lines he had drawn around himself when everything had seemed like a fair deal with his empty belly, freezing toes and bruises on his skin.

"You are a good am Porthos," the Captain repeated what he had a little over three years ago and turned on his heels, "get some rest, that wound in your side still isn't healed."

For a second he wanted to do something completely Aramis-like and tease the Captain about caring for his men. But then he noticed the exhaustion in the heavy footsteps up the staircase and found only gratitude for the sentiment in the man he respected.

Treville turned to regard him once he was up on the balcony and Porthos nodded.

The Captain turned into his office with a smile in his eyes and Porthos turned his attention back to the apple in his hand. He had just finished eating when shuffling footsteps had him turning his head to the sound. He surged to his feet at the sight of Aramis slowly making his way over.

"Sit down Porthos, 'm fine!" the man waved his good arm at him, his bound shoulder leaving his other arm pressed tight to his chest where it was held by a sling.

"You're a portrait of fine my friend," Porthos rolled his eyes as he sat back down.

Wordlessly he scooted over on the bench and with a sigh Aramis plopped down in the now empty space nearer to him. Leaning over the table the younger man made a grab for the bottle of wine but Porthos plucked it out his reach.

An undignified groan escaped Aramis.

"Food first," Porthos said.

He grinned when Aramis broke of a chunk of bread and bit into it viciously. The brown eyes narrowed over bulging cheeks before his friend swallowed, wincing as he did.

"Happy?" Aramis rasped.

"Ecstatic," Porthos said.

He poured his friend a drink and ladling the lukewarm porridge in a bowl he pushed both items towards Aramis. The younger man drained both the utensils before reaching out and grabbing an apple. Porthos felt his nose twitch at the sight and a fond grin pulled at his lips as his friend threw a leg over the bench and sank back against Porthos' shoulder, facing the yard beyond.

Porthos threw a sideways glance at the back of the dark head.

"Never imagined it'll all turn out like this when we first met," he shook his head, voice light at the memory of the teenager from years ago.

"You were supposed to take me prisoner,"

"I was talking about before,"

"Before what?"

"Before you rose out of the river and flopped out onto the bank,"

Aramis shifted so that they were shoulder to shoulder again and stared at him.

"What're you talking about?"

A strange feeling roiled in his gut, like a giant fish flipping its tail in there and Porthos grimaced. He was suddenly not sure if he should share that first encounter with his friend, fearing that it might just nip their budding friendship.

"Porthos?"

Running a hand through his curls the big man regarded his friend.

"The first time met it was in a village where we followed a soldier visiting the Comte de La Fere at his châteaux," he said, "you put up quite a fight, hit me in the nose with an apple."

Aramis stared, brown eyes wide as his jaw worked soundlessly to form words.

"I was with the bandits," Porthos clarified, "you didn't see my face, not all of it."

* * *

That place, that time, the events that followed after the arrival of that soldier, it hit too deep past his already shaken defenses. His mind was still reeling to come to terms with all that had happened in the last few days. Aramis closed his mouth with an audible click and pulled in a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

It would do no good for him to get swept back into memories of the life he had left buried beside his mother's grave. The place where he had lost Thomas his first real friend, the place where he had lost the boy he was, where he had taken a life for the first time.

" 'Mis?

He swung his head to face Porthos, not liking the uncertainty there.

"I –I'd never imagined," he shook, "that was a different life of a different person,"

"What happened?" Porthos asked.

There were so many things that had happened, the Comtess, Thomas, his mother and then Remi. He had said that his mother had asked him to kill the boy should he cross the line and now there was an ill feeling coiled in Aramis' gut that the man may have been telling the truth.

His mother had known about him and she had feared him. It was not his imagination when he had seen her withdraw from him when he had awoken at his home after the fight with the Comtess. His hand on the table clenched into a fist, the still raw skin from healing blisters stretched painfully and his nails scrapped the hard wooden surface as his fingers curled in; she had been aware of what he could do, the danger he posed.

He glanced at Porthos and wondered if his friend knew the worst of him would the man turn his back on him, would he be afraid as his own mother had been.

"I killed my uncle," Aramis said.

Porthos blinked.

Aramis could hear his own heartbeat in his head. He had no idea why he couldn't stand the thought of losing Porthos and Athos. He had dragged them into this magical mess, unintentional as it was and he didn't know how accepting they would be of it all.

"I'm sure you had your reasons," Porthos shrugged.

Aramis let go an audible breath that tapered into soft laughter. He shook his head and Porthos grinned back, bumping their shoulders together. They looked up at arched entrance of the garrison in unison as the slow clatter of a horse announced Athos' arrival.

For a split second it was the Comte that Aramis had often seen ridding down the village road and he blinked rapidly. Porthos' trip to the memory lane had brought to the front the carefully tucked away childhood that Aramis had spent in the village around the d'la Fere châteaux. While he had seen the other man often they had never interacted, but after being friends with Thomas Aramis knew how much his friend had meant to his older brother when the former had not yet married the Comtess.

"Don't tell him about this," he said to Porthos.

The reason he hadn't told Athos that he knew him when they had first met a year back, was the same reason he hadn't broached the subject in their time together since and that was why he was asking Porthos to be quiet about the matter; he could not touch upon the subject of Thomas with Athos.

He knew it would hurt the older brother and it would hurt him as well, he did not wish to dwell on the pain of that loss for either of them.

Porthos nodded although he seemed confused. Athos handed the reins of his horse and of the empty one behind it to Jacques. He touched the brim of hit hat in greeting and Aramis found himself pleased beyond belief to find his friend still looking him in the eye.

"Still alive I see," Athos said as took a seat on the bench from across them. Placing his hat on the table he reached for the bottle of wine and poured himself a drink.

"Did you find it?" Porthos asked.

As an answer Athos raised the seal between his fingers and tapped it on the table. He downed the entire glass in one go and smirked at them.

"Was there any doubt?"

"Your modesty does you credit," Porthos rolled his eyes before he arched an eyebrow, "did you have a companion on this ride?"

"Constance," Athos refilled his glass and took a sip from it, "she's staying at the inn. We are to go ahead with Etienne's funeral although she would be writing to her aunt."

"She'll be staying in Paris?" Porthos asked.

"If Monsieur Bonacieux would agree to marry her like he was supposed to,"

It was the touch distaste that had Aramis looking from Porthos to Athos.

"You don't look pleased," he said, "You don't think she should go ahead with this marriage?"

Athos placed his elbows on the table top and hunched forwards. Aramis could tell that the man was remembering something before the frown in the corners of his eyes eased and he shook his head. Athos drew a hand through his hair and his shoulders sagged a bit.

"She seems sure," he said, "it's not my place to question her."

"Does she love this man?" Aramis asked.

Athos gave him a bland look and arched his brow in a sardonic look that needed no words.

"If she does then it's alright I guess," Aramis shrugged, "you marry for love, that's how it lasts."

"Is that so?" there was a hint of bitterness in Athos' voice.

"All I'm saying is that she should marry the man she loves," Aramis raised his hand in defense; "if it's not this Bonacieux then she could wait for the one who is that man."

A wisp of an errant thought flashed in his mind and he shook his head at the idea, grinning suddenly.

"Who knows? She might just find her love one fine day in the market," he said.

"Just like that yeah? Go to the market and come back home with the love of your life?" Porthos chuckled, "You suppose she'll have a basket big enough to carry a man?"

Aramis laughed and gave his friend a shove.

"It's a possibility," he said.

"With all that we've recently learned maybe it is," Athos said.

Aramis shifted his weight where he sat and absently rubbed the injured shoulder. His eyes traced over his friend's face but he could not hold the gaze fixed on him and instead looked down at the tabletop between them. He could feel Porthos shift towards him and was grateful for the leg that pressed against his own.

Glancing sideways Aramis flashed him a smile before looking back up at Athos.

"I found out about this – this ability just over three years back," he said, "I still don't know much about how it works and I can't really explain how I use it. When I need it, it comes to me like breathing," he shrugged a shoulder, "natural and easy. But all that the Captain told us I hadn't known before and I honestly haven't been able to make sense of it."

Aramis found the blue gaze boring into him soften as his friend looked to Porthos and then back to him, there was that fond look of playful arrogance that Athos had come to adopt in the past years when he was being indulgent of them during their missions.

"Then I suppose we'll have to make sense of it together," he said in that infuriating resigned way.

"I suppose we must," Porthos gave an exaggerated put upon sigh.

"I hate you both," Aramis grinned.

* * *

His desk was littered with papers save for one neat pile at the far corner; it was dishearteningly thin he noted with a glance and went back to his scribbling. The disasters one after the other after that mess of the Comte's hunting party had put every administrative duty onto hold. There were reports to be made, requisitions drawn up, explanations offered and condolences letters written out. And then there were the funeral arrangements for the two Musketeers who had died.

The Captain of the Musketeers hoped that had succeeded in finding the Comte's seal. His Majesty had been more than testy in the face of the Comte's own tantrum and threats to support Savoy. Treville would be a happy man to see the back of the Comte's carriage as it left Paris.

But that was not what was leaving his thoughts in tangles; it was the need to come up with a way to break the news of his parentage to Aramis. As he had sat vigil over his men last night he had decided to man up and claim the son who was oblivious to his position. If only he could stop the shivering in his knees at the very thought of revealing that secret.

What if Aramis got angry? Or disappointed? What if he hated him and left the Musketeers because of that?

He paused in his writing and bit back a sigh. Sitting back in his chair Treville wiped a hand down his face before pinching the inner corners of his eyes, picking out the moisture that had gathered there lest it trailed down is face.

A knock on his open door had him straightening.

"Captain?" Aramis stood in the doorway.

"Yes," his voice coming out gruff as he reined in his emotions.

"I come with a peace offering?" the end of his declaration twisted into a questioning tone as Aramis held up the seal of Comte d'Fleurhelm.

"I was told Athos went to retrieve it,"

A sheepish smile flashed on his face as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"He thought it would be my chance to get back in your good graces," Aramis said.

Pushing his chair back the Captain got to his feet and rounding his desk he came to stand before Aramis with his arms crossed before him. The younger man was staring at a spot on the floor between them, standing in his shirt with one arm in a sling while his other hand still ruffled the hair at the back of his head he looked too young to be someone who had lived the life he had.

 _Just a lad_ , Treville's eyes narrowed at the thought, _not even twenty and with so much blood on his hands_. He had to wonder if he had stopped him, somehow saved him that night when he ran from his village, could he have saved his boy from this.

Aramis took a few steps forward, stopping before the Captain with his back straight, free hand by his side and eyes fixed ahead; until they met Treville's gaze.

"I did not follow your orders yesterday and it was not my place to challenge you in the infirmary last night," he said, "I will accept any punishment you see fit."

And then he stared ahead, not moving an inch.

And just like that the boy disappeared and it was a man before him, a soldier, accepting his place by giving his senior the authority over him.

"But you are not sorry for it,"

"No sir,"

He had done what he saw right, stepped into the heat of things and was ready for the punishment it would bring. Treville was reminded of the boy he had first met, he didn't like the easy way his son had accepted his uncle's response to his actions then.

That was why he could not bring himself to dole out corporal punishment now; the boy had had enough of those growing up. But then his sense of justice demanded if he was being fair and the next words out of Treville's mouth came out in a tone much harsher that he wanted.

"And why is that? Because if you're not sorry for your actions then this is a waste of time. I don't see how any punishment could be meaningful,"

"My actions were disrespectful towards you Captain and I regret that," he offered a fleeting glance before straightening, "But they saved my brothers and I'm not sorry for that."

"There could have been better ways,"

"You're right sir,"

Assigning him duties in the kitchens and the armory were out of the question, Treville still shuddered internally at the memory of the lad's 'special gunpowder' and his 'experiment' with the food. He let his hands drop by his sides and nodded.

"Very well," he said, "starting tomorrow you will be helping me with my paperwork in my office every day until you've recovered from your injury. That means you will have to report to me an hour before the morning muster. And once you have your strength back you will be helping Jacques with his duties at the stables until I see it fit to release you from them."

"Yes sir,"

Aramis nodded sharply.

"Now that seal that's been haunting me this morning," he held out a hand.

The younger man smiled slightly as he handed it over, his shoulders relaxing and a hand coming to rub at the injured one.

Checking an answering smile before it could break through Treville turned back to his chair.

"You're dismissed," he said over his shoulder.

He had not yet reached his chair when the Captain stopped, the sound of receding footsteps urging him to say something, to get it out now and be over with it. Praying and hoping fervently that his son would accept him, he turned around and moved across his office.

He was on the threshold when he saw the younger man standing on the balcony outside, a hand clutched at his hair as he stood undecided of his path.

"Aramis?" Treville called.

The man whirled around and the Captain signaled him to get back in the office. Aramis was back in quick strides, stopping short in the middle of the room.

"Captain?"

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

"I have to ask something," Aramis spoke with an uncharacteristic hesitance that put his father on the edge.

A strange jittery feeling crawling under his skin as the Captain braced himself for another inquiry about the younger man's long absent father. This time he would get the answers he had been searching for.

"Can your friends in the watchmen give you something to keep you from getting affected by my abilities?"

"What?" it slipped out without his assent.

"Is there a way we can be sure you're safe from my influence?" he asked.

Treville frowned and rubbed his forehead, he had no idea where this was going but he knew he couldn't tell the man that he was a watchman, not when he had just seen the extent the watchmen can go to get results.

"There may be a way," he lied.

"Good," said the younger man, "I need you to use it please, and I need you to promise me something."

Treville did not like the way it was sounded, the crease between his eyebrows deepened as he stared at the young Musketeer and motioned for him to go ahead.

"I need you to make sure that are safe from my abilities and I want your word that should I cross the line you will put a bullet through my head or a blade through my heart." Aramis said.

Treville stared.

His son, his boy was asking him to – he was asking for his word that – he stared.

There was a tightness in his chest as the edges of his vision frayed grey and he suddenly pulled in a sharp breath; his body finally remembering that it needed to perform the vital function. Treville bumped back into the edge of his table and stayed there, because he was acutely aware that his watery legs would not take his weight.

"Why do you –?" he closed his eyes and searched for words, "Why do you think you need this promise?"

"Because there are three people in this world that I trust," his voice was soft, fond even, "and the other two would not be able to come to this logical conclusion if the need arises."

Shoving aside the pride in finding himself in this select group Treville glared at the man.

"And you think I would be able to do that?" he demanded.

"They stood up to you for my sake when we had almost just met," Aramis ran a hand through his hair, a smile pulling on his lips as he looked to the Captain, "they won't don't it and I can't ask them this. We're brothers," he said.

 _And I'm your father;_ he bit his lip to keep from screaming at him.

He wished he hadn't told Aramis all that his mother had told him, he wished that Felipa hadn't told him all that in the first place. He should have stayed, he should have known about it all to begin with, he should have protected his family.

With a shake of his head he looked away from the young face before him.

"And what is this line that you might cross?" he asked quietly.

"I'll let you be the judge of that,"

Treville turned to face him so fast his neck hurt. There had been no cutting sarcasm in those words and there was no teasing smile in the eyes before him; only honest trust that left him shaken. The Captain could not stand to gaze upon it; the faith in his judgment for this was too much of a burden.

"So you're appointing me your judge and executioner?" he snapped.

"I am," it was simple.

The pliant acceptance of it all grated on Treville's nerves, especially since he was in denial of his son ever turning evil and destroying the world as he was supposed to.

"And what makes you think that you will even cross this damned line?"

Aramis snorted, shaking his head in abject incredulity.

"You heard what you were telling me didn't you? And you were there when I killed my uncle –"

"He was not your –"

"I gathered that much but I had grown up looking to him as my uncle and I killed him –"

"He murdered your mother; he had been trying to kill you."

"I was sixteen, how many boys that age go about taking lives and it was not in self-defense Captain. You saw that we were out of the fire and the man was nowhere near me at all –"

He stopped abruptly Treville collared him. Holding him by the scruff of his shirt he shook the younger man in barely suppressed rage. Blue eyes brimming with frustration held the surprised gaze of his son.

"Why are you so insistent to believe the worst of yourself?"

The hands that had grasped his shoulders in reflex gripped tight as the younger man in his hold blinked rapidly.

"My mother had hired a man to kill me if need be, she knew me the best and she believed that Captain," he spoke as if he was confused of the older man's stubborn denial, "my mother knew the risks of keeping me alive and I'm sure so did my father. She stuck around with a backup plan and he left, what more proof could there be of this all being the truth?"

Treville let him go as if he'd been burned.

His son's words, although spoken conversationally stung like a lash from a whip; sharp, deep and fiery.

"Captain?"

He shook his head, realizing that the younger man had stepped back from him too. He looked to him with an ache in the hollow between his lungs and forced his voice to come out steady, free of any emotion.

"About your father –"

Aramis raised his hand to stop the older man's words and with a shake of his head he took another step back.

"I don't want to talk about him anymore," he said.

"But I want to tell you –"

"Please Captain," Aramis looked up from the spot on the floor he had been staring at, "last night was the last time I would have wondered about him. The man left, if he's still alive he had forgotten about me and if he had died then he still chose to leave his family behind. I need to move on from that."

His son was moving on, he was too late, Treville was certain there was a sinkhole opening under his feet. And the fear and pain of the loss pushed forward the soldier in him that could face it; he stood tall, stiff and proud with his hands clasped behind his back and steady eyes on the younger man before him.

Aramis ran a hand through his hair again, the ends which were starting to stand up by now.

"I know what I ask of you is a big responsibility to take on," he said, "Would you at least consider it Captain?"

He could not trust himself to speak.

He nodded.

"Thank you," said the boy before he left.

For several minutes the Captain did not move. His trimmed fingernails were embedded in the skin of his wrist that he had clasped behind his back and his jaw hurt from being clenched shut too tight. He swallowed down the salty taste of unshed tears at the back of his throat and forced his breathing to remain steady even as his heart pounded as if it was ready to break out of his chest.

"So much misery in this place," said a voice from behind him.

He turned around slowly, pulling out his sword as he did.

The woman wrapped a strip of her dark hair around her finger and perched on a chair. She sniffed lightly.

"The air just reeks of it you know," her dark eyes fixed onto him, "don't stare Captain it's rude."

The tip of his rapier rested on the woman's throat and he watched her lean back slightly.

"Come now, I thought we were friends," she said, "I'm the Weaver remember? Isadora? We've met before not in this face but still..."

"You die now,"

The tip of the blade broke skin but it healed instantly.

"You can't kill me Captain," she said, "and I'm not here to kill you either."

"What do you want?"

"Nothing that is ready to be taken," she said, "I see now that the set is not complete. But it will be."

Treville pulled back his rapier and placed it back in his belt. A deep exhaustion was stirring in him and he still had a lot to do and a lot to think about.

"Speak plainly or leave," he said.

She got to her feet with a smile.

"It's like the seasons my dear Captain," she turned away from him, tracing the armrest of the chair with her fingers, "Summer, Autumn, Winter and Spring;" her fingers danced over the edge of the backrest, "The rise, the catalyst, the fall and the hope," her finger tips settled on the border of his desk and she turned to look at him, "Porthos, Aramis, Athos and…." she smirked, "I won't tell you."

His hands fisted at his sides.

"But I can tell you they've met your son," she said, "Did you know Athos and his family came to live in that châteaux after Aramis had moved there with his mother? Did you think it was a simple coincidence that you went looking there for recruiting? Or it was just chance that Porthos found his way there after a life time in Paris?"

"What do you mean?" he was getting sick of the games and the secrecy, "was it your doing?"

"Me? Ofcourse not," she shook her head and smiled, "it was him Captain, your son. He had pulled you all there, he called you without knowing I'd think and you all answered without knowing either. And I can tell you this; he had met the fourth already too."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I want you to keep an eye out for the last piece," she said, "be sure it'll be drawn here where the others are. They are young and not ready to face what's coming. But yours is a child of strife, he will propel you all into it. A born knot of two bloods, did you tell him that? Did you tell him that there's a watchman's blood in his veins too?"

"I told him nothing of that sort," he snapped.

"A pity," she said and glanced over his shoulder, "maybe now's your chance?"

He whirled around with a curse on his lips and found the office empty. He snapped back to the woman only to find she had disappeared too. Cursing under his breath the Captain pulled out the drawer in his desk that was emitting a glow and stared at the bough of white lilies that was glowing again.

* * *

The letter was short.

It demanded his presence before the leaders of the Brotherhood of the Watchmen and he knew they would be chewing him out for his role in the whole Shredder business. How they had managed to link it back to him was something that the Cardinal Richelieu did not understand.

With a scowl he wrote down his acceptance of the summons, sealed it with the insignia of their brotherhood and handed it to the messenger. Scowling harder as the man bowed and left.

He pushed his chair away from his desk and glared at the woman who stood leaning against the wall.

"You said it would work," he said.

Drawing her gaze back from the open window she settled her catlike green eyes onto him.

"It did," she said.

He was on his feet and in her space with a dagger under her chin in a matter of seconds.

"Care to enlighten me how?" he asked, "because as I see it those Musketeers just disposed off the man I had put in charge of ending that born knot."

With an almost gentle touch she pushed the blade away from her skin and smirked at the man before her. M'Lady titled her head to the side and regarded him with a look that had him questioning his own intelligence.

"But it worked your Eminence," she said, "This proves that whoever that knot is it's a Musketeer. Your puppet targeted the garrison, it brought back one of the Musketeers alive, doesn't that sound odd to you? And it was the Musketeers who were able to dispose him off in the end."

Mulling over her words he stepped back from her.

Her deductions made sense and the Captain had been worried about one of his injured Musketeer. Maybe that Musketeer would be able to shed a light on the matter of this knot; maybe the Captain could identify him for the watchmen.

Sitting back in his chair Cardinal Richelieu smiled.

* * *

It was a week after the city had been rid of the Shredder.

The sun was out, the streets alive with people and they were finally free of their duties for the day. Dodging the squealing children chasing after each other the three of them made their way towards the small party on the cobblestone yard outside the cloths merchant house. Many revelers looked their way as the three Musketeers in full uniform, with their pistols and rapiers, came to a stop at the edge of the celebrations.

"Can I help you?"

Athos looked at the man before him.

"We're looking for Madame Bonacieux," he said.

"I am Monsieur Bonacieux, she is my bride," he puffed out his chest.

The three of them looked at each other before turning to the man with thin whiskers and beady eyes.

"Congratulations on your wedding –"

"Athos?" Constance appeared at her husband's shoulder, "Athos? You all made it!"

She flung her arms about his neck and hugged him tight. Patting her lightly on the back Athos couldn't help the tiny smile in the face of her happiness.

"Apologies for the delay Madame," he said as she pulled back.

His eyes widened at the sight of her wiping her eyes.

"Constance?" Porthos asked.

"It's nothing, just happy tears," she said with a small laugh.

Then turned to Porthos and hugged him too. Her delighted laughter echoed all about when Porthos picked her up in his embrace and gave her a whirl.

"You look beautiful," he said as he set her down.

"Thank you," her eyes were turning red.

"But they do say it's in the eye of the beholder," Aramis spoke up.

And she backhanded him for that before pulling him in a hug a too. When she drew back the man held her at an arm's length and kissed her fingers.

"But it would only be the blind who can't see how beautiful you look," he said.

She laughed and smacked him on the shoulder, only for him to stagger exaggeratingly at her blow.

"We'll make a musketeer out of you yet," he grinned.

"Stop it you," she scolded although she grinned and took the arm he offered.

"Now I thought this was a wedding," Aramis looked around, "why are the musicians in mourning though?"

"I can fix that," Porthos grinned.

And just like that Athos found himself standing alone with a flabbergasted Monsieur Bonacieux. The groom stared at the big man who stalked over to the small band and seconds later the mellow music cut off. A jaunty tune filled the air instead and Monsieur Bonacieux turned to the Musketeer left standing before him.

"Who are you?" asked the groom.

"I'm Athos, that's Porthos and Aramis, we're the king's Musketeers," he said.

"And you know Constance how?"

"We're her brothers,"

"But she had one brother who died recently –" Monsieur Bonacieux faltered.

Athos glared at the man who stepped back a little, his head swiveled to Porthos who was eating pastries and despite the grin the warning in his eyes was clear. His eyes went to where Aramis had Constance twirling under his hand and the groom flinched at the forewarning in the gaze that flicked his way.

"You're her brothers," Monsieur Bonacieux nodded, "I see that."

From over his shoulder Athos caught his brothers' eyes.

"Yes we are," he nodded.

* * *

" _ **You cannot see brotherhood; neither can you hear it nor taste it. But you can feel it a hundred times a day. It is the pat on the back when things look gloomy. It is the smile of encouragement when the way seems hard. It is the helping hand when the burden becomes unbearable." – Peter E. Terzick**_

* * *

 _ **END.**_

 **A/N: If you are still this story you have my gratitude and respect for your patience.** **Thank you everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. Secrets come out in the next one in this 'verse but I won't post until I've typed it ALL out; lessons learned with this one :)**


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